


Cat's in the Cradle

by nicKnack22



Series: Cat's in the Cradle [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Adoption, Angst, Bad Parenting, Childhood, Dad!Dean, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Parents Castiel & Dean Winchester, Past Child Abuse, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Purgatory, Reconciliation, Season 8, Slow Burn, Team Free Purgatory, Team Free Will, Unconventional Families, dad!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 105,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Cas who finds her...retrospectively, Dean isn't really surprised.  When Cas, Dean, and Benny find Emma in Purgatory a new struggle begins--for trust, family, and reconciliation.  Picks up in Purgatory and carries across (rewrites) Season 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Girl Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [8sword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/gifts), [alullabytoleaveby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alullabytoleaveby/gifts).



It’s Cas who finds her. Retrospectively, Dean’s not really surprised. What continues to stump him is the fact that Cas didn’t just kill her on the spot—dude’s come a long way from his ‘smite first, ask questions later’ policy for non-human kids—Dean’s never sure later if Cas actually has come that far, or if, just maybe, he saw the connection, sensed where she came from, and stayed his hand. Maybe Cas just has a soft spot deep down for the lost, the broken, and the damned. Dean wonders but he’s too afraid to ask, unsure if he really wants to know.

Cas calls his name, and the low growl of his voice resonates through the gloom of Purgatory, it draws Dean over instantly. Since he’d found Cas, he’s been finely tuned to his presence and his tics—his tone suggests confusion, danger, and Dean responds accordingly, sprinting in the direction of Cas’ voice. Dean expects Leviathan or worse, but what he finds in the small clearing is Cas standing over the body of a solitary smoked out vamp. The corpse has what looks like a rudimentary knife in its throat, and Cas has a particularly nasty frown on his face.

Benny comes up next to Dean a moment later and pauses, his usually relaxed expression turns contemplative almost instantly, and when Dean shoots him a questioning glance, Benny jerks his chin towards Cas.

Dean follows the direction of both of their gazes and….well, he doesn’t expect to see a child crouched low against the trunk of a tree. 

It’s a scrawny thing, matted, dirty, cornered, and glaring at the three of them with wild eyes. In all the months that he’s been here, Dean’s never seen anything less than a fully grown monster. This bedraggled scrap of a thing leaves him not doubt as to why—Purgatory isn’t exactly a fucking nurturing environment.

“What the hell?” 

The kid turns at the sound of his voice and hisses, bares pointed teeth at him; its eyes flash yellow in a face streaked with blood and filth. Some niggling sensation rises up in the back of Dean’s brain—a strange feeling of déjà-vu. He ignores it, shrugs, and lifts his weapon to put the little monster out of its misery before it can do any harm.

Cas blinks solemnly, almost sorrowfully, as the creature flinches. He holds out a hand to stay Dean’s advance.

“Dean,” he warns. 

He pushes forward, but Cas proves to be immovable, “What gives, Cas?”.

Dean is about to tear him a new one because they’re not adopting a damn pet in this hellhole, but then Benny fucking chimes in.

“Easy there, brother,” he drawls. He and Cas share a weird look because apparently they’re suddenly on the same page, and, yeah, that’s not weird or creepy at all. Dean has the increasingly unpleasant sensation that he’s missing something important.

“What’s the hold up?”

He goes to move again, but Cas places a hand on his shoulder and Dean stills involuntarily, feels inclined to punch him just for the hell of it. The angel frowns and nods at Benny, who nods back and approaches the feral little thing crouched among the debris. 

It growls and backs farther against the tree trunk. Sharp teeth, pointed claws, blood spattered everything, eyes gleaming in warning, it looks like it’s gonna do some damn damage before they take it out. It reminds Dean inexplicably of those tiny dinosaurs in the travesty of a sequel to Jurassic Park—the ones that look really cute but still manage to eat your damn face off while you’re alive. Dean does have to at least grudgingly admire that the little thing’s a fighter, feisty even, she’s surrounded and probably gonna die, but she’s facing the end with her chin up.

Benny lowers himself to its level, hunkers down; it hisses a warning. 

“Easy, girl,” his voice is a gravelly Southern drawl, slow and soothing, sweet like molasses. He smiles back at Dean over his shoulder, “ain’t nobody gonna hurt you; ain’t that right, Dean?”

Dean rolls his eyes. 

The kid bares her fangs at Benny, and Benny shows her his own. She tilts her head when he retracts them, and, when Benny offers the child his hand, she considers it with a confused frown before examining it critically, sniffing it, tugging experimentally at his fingers. She sits back on her haunches again and contemplates the bearlike creature before. Her features have relaxed slightly, her eyes have stopped glowing. 

Dean turns to Cas for some kind of explanation of this weird ass behavior, but Cas is watching the proceedings intently, like there might be an exam later. 

Eventually, after some serious thinking, apparently, she moves closer, infinitesimally closer, and bares her throat to Benny. He smiles, “’Atta girl,” and lays a paw-like hand on her head. 

Dean has had enough of this shit, “Does somebody want to tell me what the fuck is going on? Is there a reason that we’re not killing Frankenstein Jr. over here?”

Dark eyes in a small haggard face stare up at him with something like anger from the forest floor. There’s something about the set of her tiny mouth that Dean finds achingly familiar, makes him break out in a cold sweat. Benny shares another look with Cas, who turns to Dean almost mournfully, certainly regretfully, and Dean very suddenly and decidedly does not want to know what the fuck is going on.

“I cannot allow you to kill your child.”

“My—” Dean blusters because one, he doesn’t have a kid, and, two, there’s no way that a kid of his would end up in monster—“Shit.”

Emma hisses at him again; Dean’s pretty sure he deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been percolating in the back of my mind for a long time ever since I read 8sword's wonderful works and fell in love with the idea of Emma. This is a mix of daddy issues, Destiel, and Emma feels all wrapped up in hurt/comfort and angst. Kudos to alullabytoleaveby, who has endlessly listened to me rant about this story, and also to 8sword for her encouragement .


	2. Baptism

Emma apparently was responsible for the knife in the vamp’s throat, which she pulls out before they move on, also the scratches all over its face. She’s a fighter, Dean confirms, eyebrows raised. Even so, the vamp was responsible for a deep clawed expanse along her arm. It looks like it hurts like a bitch, but she doesn’t flinch in the slightest. Brave too, Dean notes. He looks between the gouges in her flesh and the corpse of the fallen vamp and feels his blood boil. He’s regretful that Cas didn’t do worse than smoke the bastard…like Dean let Sam smoke Emma—god, this is so fucked up. 

Emma takes Cas’ hand when he offers it to her, seems to have some sort of implicit trust in him (like father, like daughter)—maybe because he saved her, maybe because she can sense his innate heavenliness, maybe because Cas just looks at her with some sort of deep and abiding patience and compassion, whatever the reason, she allows Cas to wash her wounds in the stream. He runs water over her face and hair, removing the topmost layer of grime. She’s docile, watching his movements with curiosity, like she’s never had a kind hand lifted in her direction, which, Dean realizes, shifting uncomfortably, she probably hasn’t. 

Dean and Benny look on from a small distance. 

“How’d you know what to do back there?” Dean asks—anything to keep him from thinking about the little girl who’s been fighting for her life in Purgatory for over two fucking years.

Benny shrugs, “Tribes and nests ain’t that different when you get down to it…just gotta establish an order, trust.”

“Huh,” Dean grunts. 

“Ain’t never seen one so young…or on her own,” Benny looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

There’s no way around the truth. 

“My brother, he shot her.”

Benny nods, “I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, “Me too.”

Cas uses his cupped hands to trickle water over Emma’s head; she follows his movements through squinted eyes. Dean thinks this might be some weird spiritual purifying thing, but he doesn’t question it. Instead, he watches the baptism from afar, excluded, and rightfully so. Cas uses his trench coat to wipe her face, dab her wounds clean; Emma only struggles slightly, and Dean comes to a decision completely, utterly, and irrevocably.

“We’re not leaving her here,” he states, determined, unwavering. 

“Didn’t think for a moment we were.”

Dean frowns, “Thought you were Mr. Three’s-a-Crowd.”

Benny chuckles low, “Three, sure, now four on the other hand…” he shrugs and smiles, “think I can make an exception for your girl.”

“Didn’t know you were such a softie.”

“I got room in my heart for a little monster or two…I had a daughter once.”

Dean turns away from the tableau for a moment to eye Been seriously, “What happened?”

Benny’s jaw clenches and then releases, “Life, death…Point is?” he faces Dean head on and somber, “I wouldn’t want her to end up in a place like this.”

Dean nods solemnly. They have a deal. 

Cas rejoins them, Emma in tow. She gives Dean a wide berth, glares at him distrustfully. The look on her face is clearer now that a layer of grime and blood has been wiped away: it’s a familiar expression, one that Sam lobbed at their father a million times and more. It makes something twist uncomfortably in Dean’s stomach. 

They continue on through the forest. Dean takes the lead; Emma either sticks close to Cas, trails behind Benny like a small shadow, or scampers away around them all, moving quickly and quietly with far more coordination than a child of her apparent age should possess. 

They stop for what passes as night in this damn place. They all need to rest. Emma looks wilder than she has all the while, trapped and unsure on the threshold of the cave they’re bunking in. Dean’s at a total loss: she either glares at him or pretends that he doesn’t exist and neither of those is a really great entry point into tucking the kid into a makeshift bed in the middle of Purgatory. She’s clearly not going to sleep with him around; looks like she expects him to kill her in the night, and Dean isn’t sure how the fuck he’s supposed to even remotely begin to assuage that particular fear, given that, based on her life (and afterlife) experiences so far, it’s not exactly that big of a leap. 

Benny takes charge of the situation quickly with that gruff sense of ease that he constantly carries about his broad shoulders.

“Emma, girl, why don’t you come sit watch with me? We’ll keep a look out for any nasties comin’ our way, huh?”

She contemplates his offer with a silent frown, hesitates, looks back at Cas worriedly as if she’s afraid to leave him alone. 

“Don’t you worry about the angel,” Benny assures her, “he can look out for himself; Dean ain’t gonna hurt him.”

Dean just blinks, gapes, and looks from Benny to Cas to the little girl. He’s not sure if the feeling in his chest is guilt, outrage, or pride. Whatever it is, it’s completely destroyed his ability to come up with a clever retort because, yeah, if anyone was going to hurt Cas, it’d be him, and doesn’t that just fucking beat all that his damn part monster offspring wants to save the angel from her demon daddy? Dean’s gonna throw up. 

“Go, Emma,” Cas encourages.

She flashes her eyes yellow at Dean, a warning, before she follows Benny into the night, leaving Dean and Cas alone.

Dean glares at the ground, shifts on his feet, nervous, avoiding whatever judgment is sure to be lurking in Cas’ gaze. 

He’s surprised by the lack of it in his voice when he finally speaks, “She takes after you.”

Dean’s eyes snap up, staring at Cas in disbelief, confusion. 

“Huh,” he’s not sure whether to claim that; to acknowledge something that he himself cannot see; also, Dean is a very articulate individual, who clearly shines in these moments of emotional vulnerability. 

Cas regards Dean carefully and closely. His face is completely impassive. 

“We’re gonna take her with us,” Dean says after a time, he directs his comment to the blade in his hands.

“I had presumed as much,” Cas inclines his head, and Dean meets his gaze.

“That possible?”

Cas frowns slightly and shrugs, “That depends…I assume that returning her soul to her mortal remains is not an option?”

Dean glares at an undetermined point somewhere over Cas’ shoulder and swallows sharply, remembering the smell of Emma’s burning flesh, and unmarked grave somewhere outside Seattle without a marker to show that she existed at all. He thinks of the small, feral creature, fighting to survive in this pit and he hates himself, burning acid rises in the back of his throat, and his eyes sting, sharp and blinding. The weight of recrimination lies heavily in his very bones; he wonders if it will ever go away. 

“No,” he finally bites out.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Comfort and understanding lie in its weight, but Dean can’t face that right now, doesn’t deserve it. He wipes at his face and clear his throat.  
“So what do we do?”

Cas seems unsurprised, but resigned. 

“Then we will have to rely on the fact that she has a human soul…that’s why she appears as she does—” he answers Dean’s frown without prompting, “she died uninitiated to the goddess, she was unconsecrated; her soul remains mostly human…it’s possible that the portal will recognize this and allow her to manifest on earth as she is now.”

“There’s a ‘but’ coming,” Dean says, when Cas trails away, “What happens if that doesn’t work?”

Cas sighs and shrugs, “I’m not sure.”

He snorts, “That’s always good.”

Cas narrows his eyes, “Theoretically, there are three possibilities.”

“Which are…” suspense, Dean decides, is not good for him.

“She would be unable to pass through the portal and would remain here—” alone again, goes unspoken, but it’s acknowledged in the gaze that they share, “—her soul would pass through incorporeally and pass on to heaven—” which is a great place to be if you’re Winchester spawn, Dean shudders.

“And, what’s behind door number three?” he prompts.

Cas meets Dean’s gaze with wide, open, eyes, holds fast to Dean’s shoulder as if to steady him, “She would simply cease to exist.”

Silence echoes and reverberates between Dean’s ears. It takes a few moments for that to resolve into a single resounding, ‘hell, no.’

“That’s not an option.”

Cas doesn’t move or acknowledge Dean’s burgeoning wrath in any way. He instead bows his head and contemplates his empty hand. Dean has the strangest desire to take it in his own. It’s several minutes before Cas speaks again.

“Dean,” his voice is deeper, sincere, solemn, reverent; it causes Dean to stop his fidgeting and focus entirely on Cas until the world is narrowed down to the battered angel before him, “I will do everything within my power to see you and Emma safely from this place,” he looks up at Dean, something incredibly, heartbreakingly old and powerful and wise shining in his eyes, “but I think you ought to allow her the choice.”

“She’s a kid, Cas,” he says because, really, how can a fucking little girl make that kind of decision. 

Cas doesn’t waver, “She’s your ‘kid,’” if that’s supposed to speak to some inherited good judgment, he thinks Cas might have missed something. 

“She isn’t really,” Dean echoes Sam’s words, but they itch under his skin unpleasantly, taste sour in his mouth. Part of him, even now, wants to claim her—this determined fighter, survivor, protector—as his own, but he doesn’t have the right, gave it up long ago.

The angel cants his head slightly, scrutinizes Dean carefully, as if he can detect the thoughts crawling around his brain, “She could be,” he says finally, “if you let her.”

Dean doesn’t have words to respond to that, and so drifts back into silence and, eventually, sleep, where nightmares of Sam and Bobby and Cas circle around him endlessly, his family of choice ending in blood and fire.

They put the question to Emma when she and Benny return. Her brow creases in concentration as she listens to Cas’ slow and steady explanation. Dean hangs back, giving her space, hoping she feels less threatened with a cushion of distance. 

“I will not lie to you,” he concludes, “the danger is quite real, Emma, but it is your life,” he looks back at Dean just briefly, “it’s your choice.”

Her little jaw works for a moment, and Dean realizes that this might be the first word she’s spoken in years. 

“Out,” she says, very slowly, her speech is faintly broken and her tongue trips slightly over the syllable, “Want out.”

There is determination in her eyes, resolution, and desperation. 

Dean wants to crow at the small victory, wants to remember her first words, wants to forget that the first sounds to leave her mouth are a desperate plea for escape, but he bites his tongue and watches Cas smile at her and lay a gentle hand upon her head, “Very well, little one.”

He pretends it’s not jealousy that coils hot and cloying beneath his ribs.


	3. Lone Wolf

Some things change after that, some don’t. If you had asked Dean before (in a really hypothetical sort of way) whether a kid would slow them down in monster-heaven, he’d likely have said, “dude, what are you on and can I have some?” followed by, “of fucking course; it’s not like a trip to Disneyland.” But Emma doesn’t really slow them down at all. She keeps up no matter what, and Dean isn’t sure if she’s doing it by sheer force of will or if she’s actually that adept. He worries it’s the former, and if he asks to stop more frequently, so the kid can rest, well, that’s not on her, is it? Cas sees right through him, so does Benny, but they don’t seem to mind. At least, they don’t protest.

There are other differences though. Cas sits with Emma close by sometimes and he talks to her in a grave voice. When Cas speaks to her, Emma stares at him enraptured and completely focused. He teaches her English (or helps her with her speaking) and Enochian. He uses sticks to carve letters and sigils into the earth, which Emma copies diligently, her mouth pursed in concentration and her hands intent on their task. When Cas praises her work, that’s the only time Dean has seen her smile—she looks so much like his mom that he has to look away, walk away even. 

Benny sings to Emma when they rest. Croons gravelly Cajun lullabies, hums big-band tunes, speaks softly, telling her stories, in Creole and heavily accented French, while she sits tucked against his side or on his lap. It’s the only way that she can be lulled to sleep. She’d spent three days straight up refusing to close her eyes, scared of Dean, scared of monsters, used to looking out for herself, unwilling to trust any of them. She’d basically fallen asleep on her feet, and, when Dean had picked her up, she’d awoken in his arms, flailing and struggling so hard that he’d nearly dropped her. They couldn’t keep that up. It was Benny who had the solution, just like Benny knew how to braid her hair with his big burly hands to keep it out of her face, just like Benny knew how settle her down when she had a terrible nightmare. Dean didn’t know whether to be envious that Benny was forging this connection with his—with Emma, or damn sorry for the bastard who’d had to leave his daughter and watch her grow old and die. Most of all, Dean is consumed with regret—he should have learned these things long ago; he should know how to sooth Emma’s bad dreams, and tidy her hair; what she likes and hates and needs without even having to ask…

Cas and Benny seem to have gone from tenuous allies, to strange parental bedfellows. They share complicit looks all the damn time. When Benny sings to Emma or pulls her hair back in a plait, Cas watches on as if he’s conducting a study on the subject. Dean’s glad for the peace (so fucking thankful for an end to the damn constant bickering), but he feels like an outsider and it sucks.

Emma reacts to them all differently. Cas she treats like the damn ninth wonder of the world. Like he’s her hero and, at the same time, he’s her responsibility. She’s protective of him. The tiny little scrap of a thing glares at Dean sometimes as if daring him to do something so she can rip his jugular out through his nose. It’s weirdly intimidating. When Dean and Cas sit together, she immediately insinuates herself between them, interrupting whatever they’d been doing or saying with her sharp elbows and knobby knees, and a scowl that would make a weaker man cringe in fear for his mortal peril. Cas sometimes chides her for being so hostile, or reassures her of Dean’s intentions, but Emma nevertheless takes up residence, affixed to Cas’ side, warning writ large upon her tiny face, anger and protection and territoriality. 

Dean is torn between pride, annoyance, and the complete and utter justification of her stance on the issue. He’s increasingly convinced that he’s going to be estranged for the foreseeable future.

Emma trusts Benny, not that she doesn’t trust Cas, but, in whatever tribal hierarchy she’s got, Benny is the alpha, and she trusts him to look out for her. That’s why she can sleep when he watches over her, and it’s why she (mostly) listens when he tells her to do something (or, more importantly, when he tells her not to do something).

Dean soon realizes that he’s not even part of the tribe according to Emma’s logic. He’s that lone wolf that gets ostracized until it starves itself to death. He’s not really stoked at the prospect. The alienation, however much justified, hurts—it’s salt in an open wound. He’s at least partially responsible for the kid living in a virtual war-zone for almost three years; he figures he deserves the penance. 

Benny brings it up to Dean one day, “You’re given Emma a wide berth.”

Dean snorts derisively, “She doesn’t want anything to do with me, man.” He doesn’t blame her.

Benny shakes his head, twirls his knife, “You’re her father, brother.”

“I’m really not,” he snaps, cause he isn’t. Cas is more Emma’s dad than Dean is, hell, she’s more Benny’s than she is Dean’s. 

Benny snorts, disbelieving, and annoyed. It’s a rare thing for Benny to be annoyed, “You ain’t exactly makin’ an effort in that department.”

Dean scowls, “She won’t even look at me, Benny.”

“She looks at you all the damn time,” he corrects, “she watches at you when you aren’t lookin, and you do the same to her…which of you is the toddler, again, brother?”

Dean glares when Benny pats him on his shoulder and walks away. It’s not fair. He’s not a baby. He’s nobody’s dad, he’s gone out of his way to make sure that he avoided that fate. Just look what happened to Ben; look at fucking Emma, at Sam…but, even so, he can’t shake Benny’s words.


	4. Little Lion

Another change wrought by their new addition is the fact that Cas doesn’t speak about leaving any more—though he occasionally dons a wounded, faraway look that raises Dean’s hackles uncomfortably and ties his stomach in knots. 

Emma straight up threw a shit fit when she overheard Cas making another pitch to go his own way. Cas had been trying to keep the conversation quiet, but Dean had had a harder time muffling his own outrage. The noise that she made when she caught them fighting and realized the subject of their argument was, well, it was wrathful; but behind the glowing eyes and descendant fangs was an achingly human desperation. Cas was stunned into silence by small grasping arms around his legs coupled with a blatant refusal to let him go or out of her sight. Benny was impressed. Cas was stymied. He struggled awkwardly to sooth her, while Dean stalked away with a lump in his throat, grateful, and afraid that he would do something incredibly stupid if he stayed. 

Emma’s attachment to the angel leaves them with no doubt that, if Cas does a bunk, Emma will be sure to follow suit to the best of her abilities (which are considerable). She’ll find him or die trying. The thought of her disappearing into the dark forests of Purgatory alone is untenable--Dean shudders, he would tear this place apart to find them both. Cas knows it. Dean and Emma hunting for him, runs directly counter to Cas’ goal of getting them safely away from this hellhole. Weary acceptance of their ‘dogged determination’ puts a stop to his plans to leave. 

Emma doesn’t speak, not to Dean. Though he knows, from the overheard murmurs that he strains to catch, that she talks to Benny and to Cas. Not often, nor loudly, not always in English, but she speaks. She’s smart, this kid, likes to learn, and a wellspring of pride rushes into his chest—the same pride he felt when Sam learned to read the newspaper at the age of four, or when his little brother won the sixth grade science fair—it’s a strange and confusing emotion, and it’s made more uncomfortable by the way that it’s paired with a sense of bereavement. He’s on the outside of this strange familial tableau—always on the outside—and, sometimes, he thinks that’s the way it ought to be, that he deserves it. At least he can look on, can watch this kid learn and grow even under the worst of circumstances, see her smile even if it’s not directed at him, and likely never will be, and, damn if that’s not the most fucking pathetic thing he’s ever thought. 

Dean groans and rubs his eyes, annoyed with himself. He misses Sam, he misses sunshine and freedom, he misses cheeseburgers and pie; the Impala and the open road. He misses Cas and the ease they used to have; hell, he misses the purity, the peace, that Purgatory used to offer him. He catches Emma humming along with Benny’s whistle and he misses the opportunities that he’s blown. 

She doesn’t trust Dean alone with Cas, though that protectiveness doesn’t extend to Benny, she seems to think that he, at least, can hold his own against her monster of a father. Cas on the other hand, she insinuates herself between them every chance she gets. Benny finds it amusing more than anything. Dean is riddled with frustration—too many half-finished conversations, too many unfinished moments between them, too much tension that lies thick and cloying and unresolved, twisting around in his gut. The situation just fucking sucks. Emma plasters herself against Cas’ side, burrows into him and glares a clear threat—hurt my angel, her stoic little face promises, and I will kill you while you sleep. 

Cas shifts and wraps a reassuring arm around her thin shoulders—too thin. He gives Dean an almost apologetic glance, and Dean shrugs. He’s aware in that dark hidden place inside of him where he sometimes thinks of Emma of his, where he makes that claim, where he’s not afraid to admit that he cares, that he wants, that he fucking wishes for…well for something—in that place, he recognizes that look on her face, it’s his expression, down to the pursed lips, death glare in her eyes, and her tightly clenched jaw. He’s aware, vaguely, that the protective streak that shines so prominently within Emma, it’s a direct inheritance from him. It’s maybe the most singlehandedly shocking revelation to date and it somehow, strongly mitigates the blow of further exclusion from someone (his gaze travels between Emma and Cas), two people, he corrects, that he’s lost and found…his people, family.

Cas rebukes Emma gently when she becomes too forceful—hissing at Dean when he moves too quickly—, “That is rude, Emma,” he cautions. 

Emma ducks her head, chastened, but she glares at Dean through the matted screen of her hair to let him know that her apology is not for him, just in case he made the stupid mistake of thinking that she in any way wanted to offer him a measure of forgiveness. Dean isn’t that delusional. He shrugs and goes to sit with Benny instead. The vampire’s sympathy is tempered with barely contained humor and it doesn’t make Dean fell any less grumpy, surprisingly enough.

Things continue like that for a while—days, weeks—time moves strangely in the brutal landscape, riddled with death and despair. They leave mutilated corpses in their wake. Sometimes, as they move on, with fresh blood on his clothes, staining his fingers and splattered across his face, he wonders what they’ll find when they get out of here. What is the time change between dimensions—slower, faster? Forty years in hell was four months on earth. Will Sam be the same? Older, long dead? He’s not sure. It gives him chills. He can’t think about it too much—distraction is something that he can’t afford. 

They deal with a regular slew of monsters—wraiths, wendigos, shifters, vamps—they handle it well. Emma takes it all in stride, and Dean is reminded that she’s been going it alone in this hell hole for almost her entire life—that strange mix of guilt and pride wars uncomfortably in his chest as he watches the kid hold her own, dripping blood and gore. Cas helps her clean up, wipes her face and hands, and it’s the only time that Emma doesn’t glare a challenge at Dean; she hides from him instead, embarrassed, perhaps fearful that he’ll mistake her for one of the monsters they’ve just slaughtered. 

Monsters they can handle, Leviathans are a different story. Benny, Cas, and Dean had outmaneuvered the bastards a few times, just barely, but the slimy fuckers have been showing up with more frequency since they found Cas. They’ve been lucky so far. Very lucky. Having Emma with them…it changes things.

Cas warns them about a second before the bastards show up. He tenses all over and tells them to run. Emma hesitates, alert and confused, unwilling to leave Cas. While Benny and Dean shift into fighting stances, Cas tries to give them distance, draw the evil sons of bitches farther away. 

Emma starts to go after Cas, frightened by his movement, worried, and Dean doesn’t feel battle calm, doesn’t feel the warm buzz of adrenaline, or the anticipation of the fight, he feels fucking scared as fuck.

“Emma,” he barks, more sharply than he intended, “take cover. Now.”

She startles at his tone, looks at him intently, and, miracle of fucking miracles, she actually listens. She hesitates with a regretful look back at Cas before she heads towards the trees. 

Dean doesn’t even have time for a sigh of relief. It’s a damn hard fight, a tough go for all of them. Cas is practically surrounded, flashes of grace against dark snarling maws. Benny has three to deal with on his own. Dean is working up a sweat. Decapitates one then another, before turning to see where he can help elsewhere. That’s when he hears her cry.

He’s caught by that single sound in the din of the melee—fine-tuned to Emma’s distress as much as he’s ever been to Sam’s. 

Emma is trapped at the edge of the clearing. Her ragged clothes splattered with black goo—she got a shot in at least. Dean barely has time to think ‘atta girl,’ because she’s overpowered—too small to chop off the head of the beast, too slow to escape. The slimy fucking dick looks contemplatively at Dean’s fucking kid, like she’s a tasty snack, before it opens its jaws to reveal oozing fangs, and Dean is moving possibly faster than he’s ever moved in his life. 

He catches a glimpse of Emma’s face, grim and determined. He smells the Leviathan’s fetid, rotted, breath. He skids to his knees in front of Emma, shielding her with his body, and catching the chomper with an upward swing, just as the fuck leans in for the kill. It’s a sharp clean cut, right beneath the chin. The bastard, what little of him is still face, has the decency to look surprised before he falls in two pieces with a dull finality on the leaf strewn ground. His head flies further with the momentum of Dean’s wrath, looking back at the two of them. Dean has a strong desire to spit on the corpse. 

He’s heaving breaths, panting, his pulse is racing, and he turns, none too gracefully on his knees. Emma is blinking at him with wide eyes and it’s like his whole body is consumed by a rush of relief—she’s alive, right there, she’s alive, she’s okay, she’s alive. He reaches out before he can even think about it, touching her face with his filthy fucking hands. Her skin is reassuringly warm beneath his fingers. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks sharply. He is just barely holding his panic in check. 

She just blinks in a sort of stunned silence. His fingers on her cheek flutter to her neck, feeling her pulse racing in the hollow of her throat.

“Emma,” he repeats, firmly, but more gently (he hopes), “Are you okay?”

She nods stiltedly, and Dean lets out the breath he’d been holding. 

“Okay, good. That’s good.”

Emma looks at him like she’s never seen him before. She doesn’t say anything.

“Are you hurt?”

She doesn’t break his gaze—he has a moment to wonder if she’s picked up this unearthly staring habit from Cas—and she points at her leg. There’s a gash on her shin bleeding sluggishly. It doesn’t look like it will need stitches, and Emma has a remarkably fast healing time, but Dean wishes briefly that he could bring the Leviathan back to life just to kill him more slowly and more painfully for daring to put a mark on his kid. His kid. He doesn’t shy from the title, the ownership.

“Fuck,” Emma flinches at his harsh tone, “I’m sorry. I’m gonna patch that up real quick, okay?” He rips off the hem of his shirt, uses it to bind up the wound. Emma takes it like a trooper. 

“You’re a brave kid,” he brushes her hair off of her face and he pulls her into his arms. She’s bony, gangly, and Dean’s suffers no delusion; she’s allowing this solely because she’s in shock, but Dean takes full advantage. He hugs her fiercely. It’s the first time he’s ever hugged her, ever shared a moment that could pass as affection with her, and it’s long fucking overdue. It feels right. He’s overwhelmed by just how much he needs the physical reassurance that she’s okay. His kid wasn’t just eaten alive or permanently snuffed from existence, she’s right here, and she’s breathing, and thank fucking god because what would he have done if she—he clears his throat, gets to his feet and holds her tighter to his chest. 

“Don’t pull that heroic crap again, Em,” he tells her, “I tell you to take cover, that’s what you do.” He’s scared and he’s frustrated, but he tries to press that bit of overwhelming pride into the gentle press of his hand on the back of her neck. Emma hides her face in his shoulder, and Dean doesn’t move her. 

When they make it back, Cas is standing unsteadily in the center of smoked out corpses and Benny is wiping his forehead with his cap, several dismembered Leviathan at his feet. He raises his brow when he sees Dean carrying Emma, but he thankfully doesn’t comment on it. 

“This,” Cas says eventually, “is why I should leave. It’s unsafe for you.”

He addresses his fallen enemies, the monsters who hunt them all in this hellhole, but particularly have it out for Cas. 

Dean blanches, “No fucking way.”

He’s lost Cas more times than he cares to remember, he can’t lose him again. Not now. Not when they’re so close to—to something that he can almost taste, almost grasp, something that hovers in the darkest recesses of his imagination, even if he can’t quite name it. 

“Emma was almost killed,” Cas glares fiercely at Dean; the wrath of heaven glowing in his gaze, “You were almost killed—”

“Nice to be included, angelcake,” Benny mutters.

Dean and Cas level him with glares simultaneously, then turn back to one another.

“—I am not worth that risk,” he concludes forcefully.

“The hell you aren’t,” Dean is almost shouting. 

Cas is glaring fit to burst, and Dean is glaring back, and the air between them is so thick and fiery that you would probably die if you were caught in the crossfire. They’re both stubborn bastards and they’re at a stalemate, and it’s Emma who finally breaks them both. She struggles to be let down and she limps over to Cas. 

She says five syllables that Dean doesn’t understand, and, suddenly, Cas has eyes only for Emma. 

He looks like he’s been punched in the gut, he pales considerably. 

Emma moves closer, repeats the same five syllables. 

Cas responds in kind, and Emma scowls up at him; three feet of pure determination. 

“No,” Cas whispers, “that’s—” he looks at Dean almost helplessly, and Dean shrugs, he’s not sure what’s going on and he can’t offer Cas some escape hatch, but he’s not sure that he would even if he could because whatever the fuck Emma is saying, it seems to be working. 

“Cas,” she says, and the word is stilted in her mouth, but it’s also laced with a sort of affection that Dean has rarely heard from her, “Please,” her voice is soft and almost heartbreaking in its intensity, and Cas looks spooked and trapped and fearful. 

He nods and, when Emma raises her arms, he scoops her up and holds her. 

“We should move on before they come back,” he doesn’t offer any further explanation, just stalks past Dean as if nothing had happened, except for the stricken look on his face. 

Benny bows mockingly, “Well if his highness says so…”

“What the hell?” Dean mutters.

Benny shrugs, “Damned if I know, brother.”


	5. Family Ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, note that's Dean's perspective includes a great deal of projection. Interpret accordingly.

Emma stops glaring at Dean after that: she watches him instead, with a tilted head and a furrowed brow like he’s a puzzle that she can’t quite manage to solve. It’s unnerving and it reminds him uncomfortably of Cas. He volunteers for first watch the night of the attack, wanting to escape the scrutiny and ignore the teeming mass of confusion that it stirs up (that this whole fucking day has stirred up). By the time he stumbles back to their small camp, Emma’s eyes are tight shut. She’s burrowed into Cas’ side, tucked beneath his coat, her small fist balled tightly in the front of his hospital scrubs. 

Cas has an arm resting gently around her form. He watches her steady inhales and exhales with a look on his face that knocks the wind out of Dean. The lines of Cas’ face have softened, the look his eyes is one of devotion, protection, care… Dean is, well, he doesn’t quite know what he is, but his chest hurts like it wants to burst apart. He feels like he’s intruding on something intensely private, and yet, he feels as though he could watch the two of them like this every night for the rest of his life and it would never be enough. 

It occurs to Dean in that moment, when Cas raises a tentative hand and lightly brushes Emma’s hair from her eyes, as if she is intensely fragile, that there is an angel watching over his kid, watching over her as if she is precious and loved, and his throat constricts painfully. He thinks of his mom for the first time in what feels like years. She would have loved Emma. There’s not a question in his mind. It wouldn’t have mattered to Mary where the hell she came from, Emma would have been her grandbaby. The corner of his mouth twitches thinking of his mom when he’d met her in the 70s, she would have beat the crap out of him for daring to think otherwise. And the mom he knew? She would have hugged Emma tight to her chest, would have cut the crusts off of her PB&J, and sang the Beatles to her, would have taught her how to be a woman and a warrior and…she would have loved her unconditionally. His mother would have been ashamed of him for not doing so already. He can almost feel her disappointment—a suffocating blanket of reproach that settles across his shoulders. 

Dean clears his throat to shake the image away, and Cas startles slightly, pulls his hand back as if caught doing something illicit. Dean waves him down and comes to sit beside him, careful to choose the side farthest from Emma’s sleeping form. 

They sit quietly for a few moments. Dean’s close enough that he can feel the warmth of Cas’ arm and see the detailed blue of his eyes, their shoulders sometimes brush when they inhale and it feels simultaneously comforting and warm, yet, somehow sends shivers across his body. 

“You put her to bed?” he asks eventually, when the quiet and feeling of Cas so close and yet so far starts to drive him a bit mad. The image of Cas singing Emma to sleep is strangely arresting, its more than Dean can quite handle and he cuts it off before it can go farther. 

Cas frowns, but thankfully doesn’t mention the fact that Dean can’t even provide Emma with a damn bed to sleep in, he’s already painfully aware of it, like a splinter lodged in his ribs, it catches painfully every time he moves, “Benny was the one who lulled her to sleep,” he says hesitantly, “she insisted on this arrangement, however,” he looks down and away, “she seemed distressed.”

She didn’t want to let Cas out of her sights, was afraid that he would leave in the night, that she would be all alone, or worse, abandoned with the enemy. Dean is frankly amazed that she fell asleep at all, trusted her eyes to close on the world for even a moment. Poor kid must be wiped out; he’s filled with the sudden, inexplicable, and overwhelming desire to brush her hair from her face as Cas had done, to wrap her in the mangled remains of his own coat and hold her tight to his chest. He shakes his head; that’s not an option. Instead he glares at Cas, frustration pouring off of him in waves.

“Can you blame her?” Dean demands. 

Cas sighs heavily, tired and resigned, “I suppose not.”

Dean feels his jaw tighten impossibly, tension wracking his whole body, “She trusts you, Cas, you can’t pull this shit. You can’t just ditch her.”

The recrimination in his voice stirs something in Cas who meets Dean’s gaze head on, unblinking. It’s Dean who almost flinches from the clarity in the blue eyes, the sympathy, the judgment, the fucking understanding. It makes Dean want, more than anything else in this moment, to throw punches or to run because Cas can fucking see him, sees right fucking through him. It’s like having his words and his actions and thrown back in his face fucking tenfold; like getting slammed into a brick wall of his bad choices and sins and regrets. “Who exactly was it who ditched Emma, Dean” the eyes seem to say, “Who was it who betrayed her trust?”; “Who exactly, sent her to rot in Purgatory?” “It was not I,” the head tilt seems to suggest, “who did that.”

Dean glares in the face of silence, his shoulders taut and heavy with the weight of guilt.

“It makes things more…complex,” Cas admits ruefully.

“What?” Dean practically barks.

Cas smooths a gentle hand against Emma’s hair, the movement is slow, almost practiced, and a frown worries his face, draws at his mouth, accentuates the crease of his brow. Dean tries not to allow his sympathy, his near constant worry for Cas, to draw his attention away from the bubbling rage that simmers in his stomach, spreads upwards and outwards till his limbs are shaking with it. 

“Her affection for me—it was unexpected, overwhelming, it—” Dean ignores the sorrow etched into Cas countenance, the way that he’s so fucking heartbreakingly confused by the fact that anyone could give a fuck about him—he hears his own words echo, reverberate through his head, “No one cares that you’re broken, Cas”—another thing that he’s fucked up. The two people he’s arguably fucked up the most sitting right here. It goddamn hurts to even fucking look at them right now; like seeing a distorted mirror image of his own worst self. 

He lashes out against that, deflects, recriminates, attacks, “—put a cramp in your fucking plan to leave?” he spits venomously.

Cas frowns at Dean, and Dean’s not sure how much of that glare is a warning to not wake Emma at any cost and how much is straight up Castiel rising to the bait. His shoulders square, his chest opens, and he stares imperiously at Dean in a way that makes him swallow, hard. Cas looks like the Cas of old. Angel of the Lord, Patron Saint of Free Will, the insane asylum melts away, the confusion and brokenness is shed like a skin, and he’s suddenly a warrior again, as strong and fucking fierce as he was when Dean first met him. Dean feel something rise up within himself in response, some part of himself that has been lost suddenly clicks right into place in response to that glare, to that stance, to that challenge, to Cas.

“Yes,” he hisses, mindful not to rouse Emma.

“Fuck you, Cas.”

Cas gives him the mother of all glares and Dean glares right back. Come at me, he says with his eyes, with the tilt of his chin, Come at me I fucking dare you. Cas actually bristles. 

“It would be safer for all of you if I left.”

“Bull shit.”

“My argument is not in any way synonymous with cattle excrement.”

“Don’t be a dick, and play fucking oblivious angel with me, I see right through you.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You’re on some fucking martyr trip. You want to stay here and get your fucking jollies from rotting in this stink whole,” Dean stares and Cas fucking blinks and so he plunges on, “Well you know what? Fuck you, Cas.”

Cas continues to glower, “I don’t deserve to leave this place, Dean.”

“Well that’s not fucking up to you,” he’s spits before he can stop himself, “I’m gonna let you in on a secret, Cas, it’s not always about you.” 

Cas doesn’t call him on his own fucking hypocrisy, but his eyes narrow, piercingly he surveys Dean, “And who is it about?”

There’s something about the tone that draws Dean up short; causes him to lose some measure of the anger spreading through his limbs, makes him feel heavy and weighted, remarkably present, like this is a test. Cas is looking at him, refuses to avert his gaze, and Dean is again reminded of days gone by, when Cas was in his personal space every damn second, when he felt so often like they were trapped in some fucking convoluted dance. Round and round and round they went, circling, moving closer and farther apart, and never quite managing to connect, though they came so fucking close so many times. He feels that impossibly again, here, now, in this fucking hellhole, in the dark, with monsters eternally on the prowl, he feels, suddenly, painfully, like he and Cas have picked up their steps and they’re closer than ever before to that inexplicable, unattainable something, and there’s not enough air. 

Cas cocks an eyebrow and Dean realizes he’s been quiet too long, has just been staring at Cas’ face like he’s only just seeing him for the first time. He shakes his head, schools his expression back into a focused frown—“It’s about—Emma, you can’t just leave her here.”

Cas blinks, draws back infinitesimally, “Emma,” he repeats, “yes.”

“You can’t just abandon a kid, Cas, she trusts you.” 

“She is not the only to have made that mistake.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists, “Cas—”

Cas’ eyes are shadowed and he looks away, “I need to atone for what I’ve done; to my siblings, to the earth…” he glances furtively to the side, “to you.”

He may as well have slugged Dean, who reaches out instinctively, hand on Cas’ shoulder, “And what? You think staying here is gonna make it up to anyone?”

Cas shrugs.

“Well, it isn’t,” his voice is a low growl and it’s adamant, “you make mistakes, fine; you think you’re the only one? I—” he inhales deeply and exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, “I’ve fucked up, Cas, I’ve fucked up a lot…I let down the people I love more times than…The things that I’ve done, Cas, there aren’t words, there’s not enough fucking penance in the world” he shakes his head, Cas sits immobile, let’s Dean words wash over him, Cas knows more than anyone the sins that Dean’s committed, “But you know what I don’t do? I don’t just throw my hands up and go fucking check out and pout about it—”

“I would hardly call this pouting,” Cas notes irritably.

“Semantics,” Dean rebuffs, “It’s a fucking cop out. It isn’t gonna help anyone. Not a fucking soul. It isn’t gonna bring your siblings back; it’s not gonna fix Sam, it’s not gonna help me, or Emma. It’s just gonna fuck everyone up more,” he swallows hard, it would fucking break me, “you think that what? I’m just gonna leave you here and fucking take Emma to Disney World and fucking forget about you? You think that I’d be okay out there—that she’d be okay—knowing that you’re rotting in this fucking pit?”

Cas’ jaw twitches. 

“Well we wouldn’t,” Dean’s voice is graveled and harsh, “You’re coming with us whether you fucking like it or not because otherwise, so help me god, Cas I will march my way back here and drag you out by your fucking wings.”

Cas frowns, opens his mouth. 

“It’s fucking hyperbole, Cas,” he barks, “You want to make peace, fine, you get up off your ass, you take responsibility for your actions and you do what you can to make up for it, but you’re gonna do it on Earth and you’re gonna do it with us. You hearin’ me, man?” 

Cas sits silently, and Dean grips his shoulder more tightly. Emma nuzzles her face into Cas’ ribs and settles again. 

A muscle in Cas’ jaw jumps, and he swallow audibly before facing Dean; “I’m sorry for having wronged you.”

“So make it up to me; come home,” his voice is pleading and he doesn’t even care, doesn’t have the resolution to be embarrassed, can’t even hide the desperation because he knows, he knows that he can’t do this without Cas; or maybe he can, but he just fucking doesn’t want to. 

Cas searches Dean’s eyes, long and hard and discerning, eventually, slowly, he nods. 

Dean sighs, “Okay, good.”

They sit silently for a few moments and Dean closes his eyes and leans his head back and sends a fucking prayer of thanks out to the universe for this small mercy at least. 

“What did she say to you?” he asks eventually, turning to look at Cas.

Cas shifts very slightly, glances down at Emma. He repeats the words that they exchanged earlier.

He looks over to Dean almost ruefully, embarrassed, “Roughly translated it refers to a kinship tie of choice.”

Dean’s throat tightens, “She called you her family.”

Cas nods shy, and not a little overwhelmed, “She said that she needed me.”

Dean gazes at Emma and he smiles softly at her, “That’s my girl.”

Cas’ lips twitch, a small smile.

Dean bites his lip, moves his hand from its place on Cas’ shoulder to take his hand in his own. He twines their fingers together and squeezes gently; prays that Cas doesn’t pull back, feels a blush creeping up his cheeks, invisible in the darkness, a twisting flutter in his abdomen. He dares to look at Cas; whose eyes have flown wide, whose smile is infinitesimally wider. It gives Dean the courage to speak.

“She’s not the only one,” he offers, gruffly and so sincere that it hurts, “who needs you.”

There’s so much warmth in Cas gaze that it feels like it might actually burn Dean away to nothing, he doesn’t deserve it, he deserves eternal damnation more than Cas does, but damn if it doesn’t feel good. Damn if that look doesn’t make Dean feel like he could do anything, would do anything, just to keep that respondent feeling in his chest. 

He squeezes Cas’ hand again, “You know that, right?”

Cas smiles and he squeezes back, a reassuring pressure that flows through Dean’s whole body, “I know.”


	6. Watch Me

Emma is watching him with wide eyes and a frown when Benny wakes them a few hours later. She doesn’t try to get between Dean and Cas; there’s no glowing flash of yellow or a baring of teeth. Her eyes narrow at him, but she’s less hostile than she’s been in the past, and Dean isn’t sure what to make of it. She walks with Benny today, taking point and sticking close to his side, but, every so often, she glances back at Dean with that same concerted expression, like she’s trying to take his measure and is not sure at all what she thinks of him. Dean considers this an improvement from outright loathing. It’s better than the ‘I hate you and hope to die in this hellhole only worse’ glare, or the equally painful ‘you are so far beneath my attention that I won’t even acknowledge your presence you are dead to me’ treatment. This is certainly a step up, but it’s also more confusing. 

Benny keeps shooting him amused looks, and Cas is more solemn than normal, but, every so often, he’ll give Dean a clear open stare that lets him know that Cas remembers his promise. Dean grins small and sincere and brushes his hand against Cas wrist, his shoulder, his elbow. A ghost of a smile dances across Cas’ face in response; it disappears with the loss of contact. 

Emma sits close to Cas when they rest later in the afternoon. Dean and Benny walk off to, well, to scavenge. Dean comes back with a set of darts made of something like obsidian and Benny with a series of roughly hewn knives. They rejoin the group with their bounty. Emma eyes it with interest. The way a normal kid might look at Santa’s sack, stocked with bounty and ready to unwrap some presents. Dean hides a smirk and a frown. 

Benny wanders away while Emma turns the darts between her fingers, enraptured. He strolls back with a self-satisfied smirk. 

Dean raises a brow—what’re you up to you wily old fox? 

Benny leans back on the log next to Cas and nods a distance away, where he’s carved a bull’s-eye into the bark of an old tree. 

“Why don’t you show Emma here how it’s done?” he suggests drily, winking at Dean. Fucking bastard. 

“Yeah,” Dean mutters bitterly, “teach her how to play with sharp objects…fucking father of the year material.” He thinks almost inexplicably of bottles lined up on a fence, of each one shattering in turn, his dad’s proud smile at Dean’s marksmanship; thinks of Sammy doing everything humanly possible to get out of bow hunting; of Ben holding his shotgun, icy dread settling in his stomach. He sees Emma’s face splattered with blood, her tiny fingers coated in the stuff, he feels vaguely sick. 

Benny continues his voice a jovial drawl, “Think she already knows how to play, brother, just might need some fine tuning, ain’t that right, little one?” 

Emma considers Dean with a tilted head, so like Cas, and a conflicted expression. Torn between wanting to learn something new and wanting to avoid Dean, or perhaps still frightened of him. 

It’s Cas who seems to notice that Dean’s on edge, torn, conflicted, cold all over, he lays a gentle hand on Dean’s wrist and catches his eye. 

“It would be useful for her to learn this skill,” he admits, gruff, “most of her opponents are larger than she is; projectiles would give her an edge.” Cas, Dean realizes, also wishes the circumstances were different. There’s an edge of regret, an emphasis on necessity, and Dean actually would be willing to admit to Sam that he would gladly have a tea party with his daughter rather than show her how to put a knife between someone’s eyes, but… 

He sighs, pastes what he hopes is a winning smile on his face (it’s been so long since he’s used that particular expression), and turns to the kid. She glances back at Benny and Cas for reassurance. Benny tells her to “go get, ‘em, darlin’” and Cas nods in encouragement, and suddenly it’s just Dean and Emma a little bit farther away. Close enough that Cas and Benny are within eyesight, that they can hear their conversation, but far enough that there is a sense of isolation. 

Emma blinks up at him. She looks more skeptical than anything. 

Dean clears his throat, wipes sweaty palms on his jeans; they come away more filthy, and a voice that sounds strangely like Bobby tells him to ‘get over himself.” 

“So, uh, you ever use throwing stars before?”

Emma shakes her head, still frowning. Her resemblance to both Sam and Cas is uncanny. 

“It’s all in the wrist, Em,” he tells her, “Watch me, okay?” 

She steps back, rather than respond, watching critically, following his movements with calculation. She’s evaluating everything from his balance to his stance and he can feel the warm brown eyes critically assess him. 

He throws one, then another. Takes his time, looks back to make sure that she’s still watching (she is). 

“Your turn,” he says with a nod. 

Emma steps forward, little face determined. She’s gangly, Dean notes, tall for her age, but still, he swallows, she’s small. She’s a baby still. She throws one of the stars and it moves so quickly through the air that it whistles—maybe not a baby then. She would be or should be if she had the chance. He promises somehow, that he’ll give her that childhood, whatever one she wants when they get out of here. 

Emma frowns, glares, the star is slightly off center. Dean corrects her stance slightly, and she allows the adjustment. 

The next three are direct hits, and Dean whistles in admiration. Emma smiles; it’s tight and tiny, and she tilts her head forward to hide it behind her hair, but it was definitely there and Dean grins to himself, feeling warmer than he has in ages. 

Emma keeps practicing and she kicks ass. 

Dean chuckles when she rushes to retrieve the stars from the tree and he has to help wedge a few out. 

“You’ve got an arm there, kid,” he notes, and Emma looks up at him with a lopsided grin rather than a warning glare, “Wann try something new, Xena?”

She frowns confused, “Emma,” she reminds him. 

Dean snorts, somehow, strangely, Emma is sometimes all Cas, and Dean thinks he might love her all the more for it. He pushes that thought far away before he can even think about it. 

“She’s a warrior princess,” he tells her, “and she’s a badass, like you.”

Emma smiles widely this time, and bites her lip to try and stop it; Dean resolves to make her smile as much as humanly possible. 

She nods. Dean teaches her knife tricks. He remembers how much Jo had loved them; how her dad had taught her. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean calls eventually, “I think Emma has officially kicked my ass, you wanna give me a hand.”

“Took longer than I thought,” Benny calls. 

Cas continues to instruct Emma in the ways of blade fighting—it is his specialty after all—but Dean can’t help but think that Emma doesn’t hate him as much as she did before. She gifts him with a tiny nod and a small grin when he leaves her to Cas’ tender mercies, and Dean returns them both. 

“How’d it go?” Benny asks from where he’s reclined against a tree trunk, whistling and whittling. 

“You’re a smug bastard.”

“And ain’t you glad about it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Thanks, Benny.”

Two days later, when Emma lands a throwing star so deeply between the eyes of a ghoul that they’d have to fucking do a craniotomy to retrieve it, she looks at Dean before anyone else with a proud smile gracing her blood splotched face. Look what I did, the smile says, aren’t you proud of me? Dean feels absurdly like he should place a picture of the dead ghoul on the refrigerator. 

“Atta’ girl,” he tells her, ruffling her hair. 

She darts away to make sure Cas is okay, but Dean can’t help but hoard the smile that was just for him.


	7. New Constellations

They narrowly escape Leviathan three times. Their attacks are becoming more frequent. Cas says it’s because they’re getting closer to the portal. Dean shoots him a discerning glance, evaluates him, checking for signs of flight risk, and Cas, well aware of Dean’s game, shakes his head at the scrutiny. Dean is worried that Cas will pull a bunk, becomes increasingly unable and unwilling to let him out of his sight—it’s a trait that he and his daughter share—but Cas shows no sign of leaving. If anything, he seems more determined to stay, more resigned to their destination. Dean wonders if forcing Cas to go through a portal that won’t take angels, he is unwittingly leading Cas to the guillotine. He worries too about Emma. Worries about what could wrong…worries about losing them both; knows that he’ll blame himself for forcing them on a suicide mission; knows that he’ll blame himself for leaving them behind. 

Cas catches those thoughts sometimes, maybe, whether he’s reading Dean’s mind or simply knows him well enough to tell. He touches Dean’s face gently, like a benediction, his fingers grace the careworn lines of his face. Dean holds his breath; his heart tops.

“It’s my choice, Dean,” he tells him, “…Emma’s too.”

Emma doesn’t avoid Dean like she used to, she listens to him when he tells her to take cover, lets him help to patch her up when she’s injured; allows him to have one of Cas’ sides when they settle down for the night. Dean thinks that’s exceptionally generous. She rarely speaks to him, but she allows him to teach her how to play tic-tac-toe in the dirt, incorporates him into her tribe somehow. He’s not like Cas perhaps, and he’s certainly not like Benny, but she allows him to come into her orbit, even if she’s still wary of him, doesn’t trust him on his own with her. Dean will take it.

Benny is vigilant as they approach their final days in Purgatory. He doesn’t suggest ditching Cas, and Dean suspects it has more to do with their strange parental alliance regarding Emma than any deep seated fondness between the two of them. Benny wasn’t lying about the fact that he has a soft spot in his heart for little monsters. He watches out for Emma, dotes upon her. He points things out to her when they walk and he croons to her at night and when Emma sits watch with him so that “your daddies can have a little talk,” and Emma scrunches her nose distastefully, and Dean sputters, and Cas impassively looks down at his shoes; Benny helps her to make new constellations from the Purgatory sky. 

The last night is the one that Dean holds onto the most, revisits over and over. They’re all tense. Emma sits out with Benny. Dean and Cas are left alone in the shelter of a small rocky ledge. 

“If things go poorly tomorrow, Dean, I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean’s mouth is dry.

“Dean,” Cas tries again sorrowfully, and this time it's Dean who grips Cas' face, forcing him to meet his eyes. There's the warmth of Cas' flesh beneath his fingers and the the rasp of stubble against his skin, and the overwhelming emotion in his gaze that Dean forces himself to meet. He hopes that Cas can see what he himself cannot say. 

“Cas, we’re getting you out of here,” he swallows down his own fears, buries them as much as he can, “Don’t you dare give me a fucking goodbye speech.”

Cas doesn’t even have it in him to look angry at Dean’s outburst, instead his face somehow softens imperceptibly, he’s looking at Dean as if memorizing him, as if Dean is precious and, fuck, Dean can’t handle that shit on top of everything else, “You say whatever the fuck you’ve gotta say when we’re topside…if you still want to, and not a fuckin second before.”

Cas shakes his head, reconciled to Dean’s stubbornness perhaps.

“Fucking goodbye speeches,” Dean mutters angrily.

Cas sighs a laugh, takes Dean’s hand and squeezes his fingers. Dean wonders how empty they’ll feel if he no longer has this.

Benny brings in a slumbering Emma a few hours later and he lays her between them. During the night she shifts, turns so that her face is pressed into Dean’s side and her hand holds tight to the edge of his jacket. Dean’s head is against Cas’ shoulder and he’s afraid to move lest she shift or startle, but then Cas’ hand is against his hair, “Sleep, Dean,” he whispers into Dean’s hair, and Dean nods, can’t help but gently touch the back of Emma’s hand with his own. They’re the same, he thinks as he drifts off, we have the same hands. He feels warm and comforted and safe and strangely whole in a way that he would never have thought possible without Sammy in the picture. He sleeps soundly till morning.


	8. Break on Through

Cas anoints Emma. Earth, Dean’s blood, Emma’s blood, Cas’s blood, river water; he mixes the ingredients together. Benny makes a witty retort about being excluded, and Cas glares before explaining that anointing the child with the blood of an abomination would negate the ritual to excise her from monster heaven. 

“And here I thought we’d gotten so close, cupid.”

Cas looked like he is very much tempted to smite Benny on the spot. 

“Hey,” Dean intervened, “you wanna maybe pay attention to what we’ve actually gotta do here instead of using each other as punching bags?”

They’d glared, grumbled, but gone back to their tasks. Cas draws sigils on Emma’s forehead, her palms, her belly, the soles of her feet, and her back. She looks like she’s donned battle paint, and she blinks owlishly. She seems withdrawn, didn’t even become invested in Cas and Benny’s argument. She’s clinging to Cas like her life depends on it. Dean would think that she was picking up on his own weird protective vibes, except, Emma has her own reasons to be afraid of losing the angel. 

Benny kneels close to Emma and whispers something to her in French that has her nodding before she hugs him tightly. 

“You watch out for your daddy now, you here?” He asks pulling back. Emma nods and Benny gives a prickly kiss to her forehead, “That’s a good girl.”

He offers a solemn nod to Cas, and takes Dean’s hand in his, “See you on the other side, brother.”

“See you.”

Then there were three. Cas carries Emma; Dean takes point. The portal is a terrifying beacon ahead. The cliff is steep. They’re close. They can feel the wind on their faces; it’s surprisingly warm. That’s when the Leviathan show up. Dean has barely a moment to think, fuck this, before he’s hacking his way through. There are two ahead, and Dean takes care of them no problem. It’s the four or so behind him that are risky. Cas shields Emma with his body. Two more appear out of seemingly nowhere. She’s struggling to get down, to help. Another three fall from the sky and rise baring fangs and claws. Cas is unwilling to let her join the melee. They stumble towards Dean even as he’s stumbling towards them. Cas can’t hold Emma and fight at the same time; he can’t defend them; Dean has to protect them both; it’s such an intrinsic painful need that it overwhelms him completely. 

They can make it out of this, he thinks desperately, as three more Leviathan appear from behind, two more on the other side of the portal. They’re closing in. They can make their way out of this, he tells himself, bile rising in his throat, heart pounding in his ears. Dean is ready, he twists his blade. Cas is in his space and thrusts Emma into his arms, and Dean’s not sure which of them is more shocked or appalled by this turn of events. 

“Cas, what the hell are you doing!?” he half screams because Cas has reversed their roles now that Emma is in Dean’s arms. He’s pushing them back, towards the portal, and Dean is trying to pull him with them, but he’s losing his footing.

“I’ll hold them off,” Cas shouts.  
Emma lunges for him, struggling to get to the angel, but Dean holds her in his arms, barely wrangling her in; she’s fighting tooth and nail to get back to Cas. Dean is frozen on the spot; he can’t let go of her—she’s got not chance of getting through without his hold on her.

Cas faces him, and the look on his face, it takes Dean’s breath, freezes his blood, “I’ll hold them all off, take Emma and get out of here.”

“Cas, no fucking way,” he shouts, the portal feels like its pulling him. His arm aches from where he’s taken Benny’s soul; he remembers his words, “Man upstairs doesn’t want humans in here.”

“Caaassss,” Emma cries.

“No, Cas,” Dean echoes desperately.

“Dean,” Cas says, authority in his voice, regret in his eyes, fucking grief through his whole body, and Dean knows he’s fucked. He starts back, struggling against the pull of the portal. The Leviathan come from all directions, and Cas can’t take them by himself, there’s no way he gets out of this in one piece…

Cas’ eyes are wide and clear and gentle and they’re filled with love and sorry and—“Go,” Cas pushes him with the strength of heaven in his arms, and Dean falls back through the portal, balance lost. The last thing he hears is Emma’s piercing scream.


	9. Up and At 'Em

Dean comes to with a gasp, flat on his back in the dirt. The wind’s been knocked out of him and he feels like he’s been electrocuted, all his limbs are pins and needles, and slow to respond. The world spins overhead, dark, and desolate. He smells earth, dead leaves, rot; sees naked branches against a darker sky. 

The ghost of Cas hand against his chest, pushing him away, and Emma—Dean moves quicker than he would think possible because his arms are disturbingly empty. He can’t have lost them both. He just fucking can’t have. His heart is going triple time and he stumbles slightly as he gets to his feet, everything slightly heavier and slower than he would like. 

“Emma,” he calls, panicking, staggering as he spins in a terrified circle. 

For a frightening moment there is nothing but silence—nothing, not the snap of a twig, nor the rustle of underbrush, just his own labored breathing—then he hears a plaintive wail; a bereaved keening. He pivots and runs towards the noise. 

“Emma!” he shouts—screw caution. 

She’s small and ragged and she’s clearly panicking, turning in a confused circle, eyes wild and wide, flashing yellow. Her fangs are bared against invisible enemies. 

“Cas?” she cries unevenly into the darkness; alone, abandoned. Relief and sorrow tangle inside Dean’s chest, painfully warring for dominance. 

“Emma,” she turns at the sound of her name, and he’s not sure, but he thinks he sees the barest flicker of reassurance in her eyes at the sight of him. They’re still glowing bright and gold, but there are tears there too and she hesitates snuffling slightly, tiny fists balled at her side. Dean crouches down so he’s at her level. 

“Cas?” she asks. Her voice might break his heart. 

He shakes his head and bites his lip; tries to keep his voice from breaking over the words, “He didn’t make it, kiddo.”

Emma’s whole face crumples, and Dean realizes that, for all the time they were in Purgatory, through all the monsters and mayhem and destruction and violence and fears, he’s never seen his kid cry until now. 

He moves slowly, mostly to give her the time and space to back off if she wants to. She’s so uncertain, so confused, he doesn’t think that she even realizes that she’s crying a cadence of Cas’ name, desperate keening sounds rising in her throat in accompaniment. She doesn’t lash out, doesn’t slice him across the face with her claws, and Dean doesn’t falter at her supernatural features, he wraps her in his arms and lifts her off the ground, holding her to his chest. She’s scrawny, warm. She doesn’t fight against him this time. Her face fits into the crook of his neck and he can feel the wetness of her tears; her hair is fine and matted where it touches his cheek. He rubs his hand in gentle circles against her back, which is erratically rising and falling as she sobs silently; he makes reassuring noises like he used to do when Sammy had a nightmare. 

“We’ll get him back, Em,” he whispers; he hopes to god that there is something left of Cas to get back; he’d been outnumbered, outmanned… “We’ll get him back, okay? I promise.”

She nods against his shoulder and pulls away so that he can see her determined stare. 

“It’s you and me,” he tells her, absurdly aware that this is the first time since he’s found her that they’ve been alone; the enormity of the situation, the enormity of his task, hits him like a wave, smothering, suffocating, somehow also invigorating, “We gotta trust each other okay?”

He meets her gaze and she considers him, her eyes gradually fade back to a more human shade of brown; he takes that as a sign of good faith. 

She nods, sharp inclination of her chin in assent. She’ll do it for Cas, enter into an unholy alliance…another thing they have in common. 

“Okay.” 

She clambers down; moves more assuredly in the dark than he does. He has no fucking clue where they are other than somewhere on earth, and they need to find civilization. They move cautiously, and Dean calls out to her when she goes too far beyond his range of vision; Emma to her credit, grudgingly, but immediately returns to his side again at his command. Neither, it would seem, are eager to lose someone else tonight. The bright pain of loss is a knife in the dark, and Dean forces his attention on the immediate problem at hand as a means of distraction. He narrows his focus down to keeping Emma in sight at all times, finding a road, transportation, Benny, Sam. He can’t afford to think of Cas yet, not if they’re gonna get out of here in one piece. 

Emma spots the dwindling embers of the campfire before he does. She stills suddenly, shifts into a fighting stance, waiting for him to catch up. She points and Dean follows her direction. He’s again torn between relief and worry, the conflicted mess centered on Emma. 

He squats down beside her, much as Benny had done that first day, takes in her red rimmed eyes, which are, for once, not narrowed in distrust or dislike, but wide and frightened, the solemn set of her mouth. 

He lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, and he can feel her tense, but she holds steady and doesn’t reject the contact. 

“I’m gonna need you to stay here, okay?” 

She glares at him (it’s a familiar expression), and shakes her head, “No,” she hisses.

Dean takes a deep breath in through his nose. He can’t let his panic and grief and fucking anger bleed through to Emma. He remembers his own father’s orders, harsh, biting, the word of law. Dean had been a good soldier, but he had been more soldier than son for a long fucking time before he even realized it; trained to obey like a damn dog and he will be damned three times over before he ever makes Emma into that; before he ever lets Emma feel that. 

“I know you don’t want to,” he says slowly, voice even and low, “but it could be dangerous, Em, and I can’t—,” he lets out an exhale, jagged and wet—they could take you away, and I can’t lose you too, “—stay here, and I’ll be back, okay? I promise.”

He nods and releases her shoulder, but Emma latches onto his jacket sleeve with force, “No,” she repeats, there’s desperation in her eyes, “Don’t go,” she bites her lip, almost as if she’s embarrassed that the request had slipped out, as if it were an admission of weakness, rather than the justifiable concern of a child alone in the dark, wanting her dad to look after her. 

He recognizes the look in her eyes, and his stomach plummets: it’s the look of a child who’s lost one parent already, and is terrified that the one she has left might leave and not come back. He’s seen that look on Sammy’s face, more troubling still, he’d seen that look in the mirror almost every day of his childhood. 

Fuck. He never wanted this. 

“Listen, Emma, I swear to you, I will be right back,” he meets her gaze dead on, holds both of her shoulders in his hands, “We’re gonna have to trust each other. So you promise to stay right here, and I will be back as soon as I can.”

He wonders if what he’s doing qualifies as lying. He wants to tell her what to do if something should happen to him, but he honestly doesn’t know what to say. He has no contingency plan. He’s fucking terrified, suddenly, of what humans would do if they got their hands on his kid. A new fear rises up inside of his heart; he’s amassing an entirely new collection of them, all related to this kid. He will do anything to keep them from coming to pass. Not coming back, he realizes, is not an option. He imagines Emma stranded in the wilderness as surely as Cas is stranded in Purgatory; imagines Emma caged like a monster; he pushes down the bile rising in the back of his throat. 

Emma searches his face for a moment and then nods; she releases his sleeve only very reluctantly. 

The camping couple is not threatening in the slightest. They’re so clean faced and contented that they might as well be another damn species. Dean is certainly alien to them if their horrified faces are anything to go by. It’s easy enough to get them to give him directions; the brandishing of a weapon eases his access to their stuff. He grabs a backpack and he bolts. He doesn’t notice or particularly care that his posturing or menace had fucking scared them, he doesn’t give a shit that he had acted like a protective and territorial mother bear; he takes the loot and fades as quickly as he can back into the night. The nubile young civilians are unlikely to follow him, but he still goes out of his way to lead them astray, he can’t lead them back to Emma. She’s the most important thing right now. 

He’s half afraid (all right, significantly more than half, more like totally consumed with the fear that) Emma might have ditched him, taken the chance to vanish into the woods; his imagination presents a vivid slideshow of horrors that could befall her.

The relief that he feels when he finds her in place is enough to make him woozy; she turns towards him, no slouch this kid, fangs bared and claws extended, eyes flashing in a display of aggression and defense. When she recognizes him, she relaxes visibly and quickly launches to his side. There’s an eagerness in her movements and she tries to disguise it, reign it in, but Dean isn’t fooled, she’s just as relieved that he returned as he is to find her waiting. 

He situates the backpack on his shoulders more firmly, places a hand on her head, and offers his hand to her. She takes it, and they walk off in the direction of the road together.


	10. Oasis

The cabin is abandoned. It’s the type of Hail Mary Pass that a believing man would call an act of god, and Dean calls a really fucking rare stroke of luck. They can’t stay long. He knows that. But it offers them a place to at least clean up, wash their wounds…it’s easy as fuck to get inside, and Emma watches the process with wide, inquisitive eyes. Dean notices, and he goes more slowly so that she can catalogue the movements necessary to open the lock. Everything is covered in a layer of dust. It smells musty and unlived in. The electricity isn’t on, but the water works. There’s a bed, which, Dean didn’t even realize until this moment how much he’d missed having a bed of any variety. He digs around in the kitchen, Emma following him like a small shadow, and he unearths some canned goods, sets them on the wooden table. The bathroom is the real find: there’s a sizable bathtub, candles under the sink, matches too. There are some reasonably clean towels and, fucking soap. Dean thinks for a moment that he might cry. It’s a fucking bizarre reaction and he clears his throat loudly and turns to Emma, lurking in the corner. 

She’s crusted in a layer of filth that no amount of river washings could fully erase. He wonders if she’s ever had a real bath, wonders how awkward this could be for the two of them. Cas would have been better with this, with everything, hell, even Benny…Dean has the fleeting memory of giving Sam a bath when Dean had barely been six himself. It had been a fucking mess, but he had gotten it done, soap in his eyes aside. This can’t be worse than that. 

“What d’you say we get you cleaned up?” 

It takes three baths just to wash off the grime and reveal clean skin beneath. It takes five washes before Dean is sure that they’ve gotten all the assorted blood, guts, gore, and filth out of her hair. It takes Dean all the strength he has not to comment on the scars that Emma bears, he has to count to ten, hum Metallica under his breath, anything not to show how fucking angry he is. Wendigo claw marks cut across her back—from the tip of her right shoulder to the crest of her left hip—they’re the worst, raised and pink, like welts. There’s a bite mark on her left thigh, hatched lines on her palms, puncture wound scars on the soles of her feet. Dean and Sam were both skinny kids, but he can count Emma’s ribs, every last one, and he wants to hurt something, punch something, run away and hide, fucking cry maybe for the pain that’s been inflicted on this little girl. She didn’t deserve any of it. Hi jaw is clenched so tightly by the time they’re done that he’s got a raging headache and his teeth are throbbing.

Emma is fairly docile throughout bath time. She’s tired, he supposes, or perhaps she’s lulled by one of the few rituals that have given her life any means of stability over the past months, either way, he’s grateful because it makes the whole thing easier. He’s gentle with her, mindful of her injuries, stringent with soap and shampoo, but careful not to let any of the suds get into her eyes. She insists on drying herself off with one of the towels he’d found in the closet. There are no kid sized clothes, but there is a flannel shirt that he helps her into, doing up the buttons when her fingers stumble over them. He rolls up the sleeves until her hands peak out of the cuffs and she blinks at him, hugs herself. He puts her on the bed, she watches him. Neither of them has said anything for quite some time. He makes some tomato soup on the kitchen stove, and he gives the bowl to her though his stomach grumbles and saliva rushes into his mouth because he hasn’t even fucking seen anything edible in way too long. It’s been longer for Emma and his kid needs this. It’s not the first time Dean’s gone hungry for someone else. She eats it, confused for a moment with the spoon, but her face lights up at the first mouthful, and Dean goes to take a shower. 

The water pressure could have been total shit (it’s not) and it still would have been the best shower he’d ever taken. The steady beat of warmth against his skin is heady, dizzying. He scrubs his skin raw under the spray; layer after layer of grime comes off under the pressure of soap and washcloth and his violent ministrations. Filth swirls down the drain, black, grey, red, a soupy mess; but he can’t wash away the guilt, the fear, the look on Cas’ face when he pushed Dean back, away. He closes his eyes. They burn and he doesn’t even have the strength to pretend it’s from fucking shampoo. He rubs his hand across his face, forcefully pushes those thoughts away. He doesn’t have the luxury of thinking of that now. He just fucking can’t. He can’t. This isn’t the first time he’s lost Cas, but he wonders, icy dread pooling though his veins, congealing, trapping him, vicelike, if this is the time that he doesn’t come back…if that was it. There was so much that he hadn’t—his eyes and throat burn, and he swallows it down, wipes his face, and turns the water off. 

The clothes that he finds aren’t a perfect fit, but they’ll do for now. He shrugs into jeans and a thermal, which thankfully covers the glowing scar where Benny’s soul lies in his forearm. When he emerges from the bathroom, Emma is curled on the bed, bowl of soup still half full. 

“You didn’t finish,” he prods.

She doesn’t break his gaze, but she carefully pushes her dinner towards him. 

“No,” she says, “yours.”

He moves to push it back but she glares; it’s a Cas glare, pure and simple, a “do as I say or I will throw you into hell myself” glare. It’s eerie how perfectly she captures the expression on such tiny features. The intensity is well taken. The familiarity is like a damn punch to the gut. 

“Okay, then.”

He sits next to her on the bed and he eats the soup. The taste is achingly familiar, nostalgic, ironic, even if he doesn’t have time to savor it, too hungry to do much more than inhale the contents of the bowl with an alacrity that he hasn’t quite managed to replicate in a few years at least. 

They don’t stay; they can’t. Dean washes the dishes in the sink and leaves the rest of it. Grabs anything that might be useful, catalogs what they have in the backpack for the road. It occurs to him what finding civilization will mean: one step closer to finding Sammy, sure, and Dean’s heart constricts painfully at the thought of his brother, but it means engaging with society. He thinks for a moment of what he and Emma would look like to some random truck driver on the highway. He saw his reflection in the mirror, he doesn’t exactly look easy or friendly, he looks worse than when he got out of hell for Christ’s sake, and he can only imagine what a picture he would cut strolling down the street with a little girl who doesn’t even fucking have shoes. Kidnapper, pedophile, child molester—those are just the first three things that come to mind, the list could go on infinitely. They’ll be setting an Amber Alert on his ass within five minutes. Not to mention the fact that, if anyone looks too closely at Emma…that opens a whole other nasty can of worms. She seems human enough, but she doesn’t quite have the hang of suppressing the monster instincts when she’s scared, angry, or threatened, and Dean’s gonna hazard a guess that travelling with him in a weird ass environment is gonna trigger every single one of those. He’s royally fucked. They’re both royally fucked. He grips the sink and takes a breath. Quit your whining and figure it out, Bobby’s voice barks in his head.

Hitchhiking is out. That’s the first thing. He’ll have to hot-wire a car. Get a place to stay, motel. There’s some cash in the wallet he stole, but not a lot. He rummages around the cabin for a while before finding some twenties stashed in a coffee can, he pockets them. He’ll have to steal maybe; he’s not sure how long he can leave Emma by herself, how willing he is to let her out of his sight, but he needs to get them both some clothes so they can at least blend in. He needs to get a phone and call Sam; Sam will be able to help them both. He doesn’t want to think about how uncle and niece will reunite, but he’s going to have to and soon. They’ve got to make it to Louisiana to get Benny, and, whether Sam meets them first or not…it’s a long trek with a four year old. Dean knows from experience. Fuck. One thing at a time. Find the road, he hears an echo of Cas’ voice, heaven, the apocalypse, Joshua in the garden. He thinks briefly that if this were heaven, Cas would be here, the ache in his chest throbs painfully, he shakes his head, shies away from the thought and goes to collect his bag and his kid.


	11. Long Road Home

They leave the cabin and hike through the night. By the time they find the road, it’s almost dawn, and Dean thinks the mist rising from the smooth asphalt is perhaps the most beautiful sight that he’s seen in ages. They follow the line of the highway from the shade of the trees; watching as cars pass with increasing frequency. It’s a long walk, it’s a hot day. Emma’s early exuberance fades, but she refuses to be carried. They’ve been up for well over twenty-four hours by this point. They’re both fucking wiped out. The first time Emma stumbles, Dean hangs back, curses himself, wishes that they could have stayed back at the cabin, just long enough for her to rest, nap a little, even though he knows why they hadn’t, couldn’t have. The second time that she stumbles; he touches his forearm, thinks of what Benny would have done. He scoops her up and she squawks in protest. 

“Shush,” he admonishes gently, “you’re dead on your feet, kid.”

She glares at him. Her face is pinched and pale in the dappled sunlight. They’ve been in almost constant darkness for years. He wonders if she’ll freckle from the light and burn like him; if she’ll tan like Sam and his dad. 

He raises his brows almost comically at her face, “You want Cas to be mad at me when we get him back? Cause that’s what’s gonna happen if he finds out I let you walk across the state.”  
Emma sighs mightily, as if she knows Dean is fighting dirty, but she suffers herself to be carried. 

She’s a heavy weight in his arms, but, he notes remorsefully, not nearly as heavy as she should be. He tries not to remember how clearly he had been able to see all of her ribs even in the dark of the cabin. 

The rest stop is a beacon, an oasis, a fucking haven of salvation. There are at least ten cars in the parking lot. Dean immediately sizes them up, judging the easiest to unobtrusively lift from the premises. 

He’s woefully out of practice, but it’s not too hard to jerry-rig an old blue Ford pick-up. The runner boards are rusted, and it’s miles away (literally and figuratively) from his Baby, but it will do. 

“Like riding a bike,” he mutters to himself when the engine turns over. They’re both piled in the car, and Emma glances gravely around the interior, taking stock, he knows, of the exits, the tools, calculating like a warrior, his own little ninja. She’d watched him hotwire with an air of deepest contemplation; whip smart, she could probably do it herself, well before she’s tall enough to reach the pedals. He hopes she won’t need to.

It smells musty and unused, the car, a good sign that it won’t be missed. He makes sure Emma’s seatbelt is securely fastened. She struggles with the restriction, loathes the confinement, glares menacingly when Dean redoes the loops after she extricates herself. He swears her resemblance to Cas and Sam in moments of disdain is uncanny, it causes painful constrictions in his chest, regret and longing and paralyzing fear. 

They hit the road five minutes later, pulling onto the nondescript highway in a squeal of tires. Dean rolls down his window, refuses to let Emma do the same, fearful that she’ll gnaw her way through the seatbelt and leap from the moving vehicle. He can’t tell whether the fear is rational or not, but it’s heady and all-consuming, and he glances over at the small figure in the passenger seat every two minutes or so to confirm her presence. She sits silent and moody, pouting or plotting as she watches the scenery fly by. The summer air feels good against Dean’s face, warm and fresh, it smells like dirt, grass, and freedom. He takes deep gulps of it. It blows through Emma’s hair. Soap, water, and sunshine have revealed it to be a warm strawberry-blonde. Fine and straight, the slightest curl at the tips. It’s her mom’s hair. Dean swallows past a lump in his throat. He tightens his hands on the steering wheel. He remembers his night with Lydia. Vividly. He honestly can’t, looking at the kid, his kid, the result of that night, bring himself to regret it. But he can resent Lydia for fucking using him like a damn breeding stud and then giving the resultant kid to a damn cult. It takes two to tango though…he hates himself more for leaving his own child motherless; for everything that happened after that night. 

Emma’s little hands are closed tight, and the only time she glances away from the window is when Dean turns the radio on. She pretends not to listen, feigns disinterest, but he catches her tilting her head toward the speakers. The strains of guitar are soothing to him, jarring at first they soon become familiar and, they take an edge off his nerves; it feels strangely like being reunited with an old friend. Damn, but he’s missed music. 

They drive for two hours, but they’re still in Maine. He pulls into a Gas’n’Sip. 

“I’m gonna get us some food,” he tells her, “you gonna be okay.”

She looks dead on her feet, struggling to attach meanings to his words. He resolves to put on soft rock when he gets back, maybe it will lull her to sleep—used to knock Sam out like a light. 

She squints at the edifice and back at Dean before she nods sharply. He takes that mean that he’d better shake ass. 

He races through the store, grabs water bottles, juice boxes, a small carton of milk. What the hell do little kids eat? What the hell do part Amazon little kids eat? He grimaces, he really does not want to think about that. He imagines Cas and Sam hovering over his shoulders; and he avoids the Ding-dongs and Fritos in favor of fruit cups and yogurts and a box of cheerios and some fiber bars. Rabbit food for both of them, Jesus Christ. 

He’s harried and antsy and the cashier gives him weird looks before he sprints out to the truck. Emma is still inside and he breathes a sigh of relief when he finds her curled up beneath the glove compartment. 

She seems weirdly relieved to see him too. They undergo another battle of the seatbelt before hitting the road again. 

The soft rock is a bust. Dean realizes quickly that they’re gonna have to stop for the night soon. Emma is tired but unwilling to sleep in a moving vehicle. Dean is fucking dead on his feet and it’s hard to focus on anything. He needs to get her some clothes because he can’t handle the pure terror the fills his body every time he has to leave her alone. He worries that someone will snatch her, report her, that she’ll run away, that monsters or human authorities will spot out this little girl and take her away and it’s fucking paralyzing. He can’t lose someone else, and he especially cannot lose this kid. He can’t take her with him into places dressed only in a damn flannel shirt stolen from a cabin in the woods without someone thinking he kidnapped her and, quite frankly, he did not get through monster hell with her only to lose her now. 

He stops at the first motel that looks remotely respectable. It’s almost dusk. He gets the room and circles back around for Emma, again, brutally relieved to find her curled protectively, defensively, beneath the dashboard, knife in hand. 

He sighs, carries her across the parking lot and locks the door behind them. The room is a hideous shade of green, but it has a bed and lights and a shower and that’s really all that matters. He lets Emma investigate the parameters, poking her head under the bed, investigating the closet, while he checks out the mini fridge and the dresser (hoping against hope for something child sized). It’s not until Dean is giving Emma a bath that he notices that her fists are still furled. He has to work to unclench them, she resists, flails away, agitated. When he finally forces her fingers to part, he sees bloody imprints deep in her palms, claw marks. She glares at him, flashes her eyes as if daring him to say something. 

She hisses through her teeth when he gently cleans them up. She was scared all day. Terrified and he didn’t notice. 

“Emma, you can’t do this,” he tells her as softly as possible, after he dries her off, bundles her up tightly in a towel. She tries to wiggle away and he lets her. “You’re gonna hurt yourself worse. You gotta be careful.” 

Her lip trembles and she curls up in the farthest corner of the room, between the wall and the bedside table. Her eyes are reddened and teary. 

He bites his own lip and takes a deep breath, moves closer to her, but she backs away and hisses at him. Tears slip silently down her cheeks, and Dean pulls up short. He runs a hand across his face. He’s been alone with her for less than a day and already she hates him, she’s hurt herself, won’t sleep or eat, and is crying. His eyes burn from frustration and exhaustion and grief. 

He walks to the bathroom and closes the door; he splashes cold water on his face and he glares at his reflection. He would like nothing more than to smash the man staring back at him. He hates the person he sees; failed father, failed brother, failed friend, a monster. Cas should have been the one to escape that hell with Emma in his arms, not him. 

He sighs and splashes his face again, slams his fists against the cheap porcelain sink. The sting in his hands distracts him from the sting in his eyes. 

When he emerges, Emma is right where he left her. She’s sniffling, but she struggles to hide it when she sees him, and Dean’s broken heart fractures still further. 

“I’m gonna go out for a little bit, I’ll be back, really—” he beings, but Emma is suddenly on her feet staring at him, poised for a fight and damn near panicked. 

“No,” she yelps.

“It’s just for a little, Em.”

“No,” she yells, tears falling in earnest, “No!”

“Emma,” he tries, his voice gravelly and soft, as soothing as he can make it, but Emma charges his legs, wraps her small, wiry body around his shin, and buries her damp face in the denim of his jeans. 

“No,” she cries, “No, no, no, no, no.”

Her voice breaks, her breathing quickens and catches, painfully shallow. 

She looks up at him with pure desperation written on her features, so much like Sammy for a moment that he can’t breathe. 

He crouches down, extricates his calf from her spindly limbs, and allows her to launch her body at his torso; he doesn’t even flinch when her claws come out to give her more grip; they dig firmly, painfully into the flesh of his shoulders. He rubs soothing circles on her back, makes shushing noises into her hair. 

“’s okay,” he whispers, “It’s okay.” 

“Don’t go,” she sobs in his neck over and over and over, “Don’t go.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he assures her, promises as he holds her tighter to his chest, “It’s you and me, remember? I’m not gonna leave you.”

“Don’t go,” she continues, “Don’t go, don’t go—”.

“It’s okay, shhhh,” he repeats. 

She finally calms enough to pull back and rub her fists in her eyes. Dean frowns, uses a calloused hand to brush her hair off of her face, uses his sleeve to wipe her cheeks. This close, he sees the tiniest flecks of green in her irises. 

“Don’t go, I don’t wanna go back to the dark place,” she sniffles, desperately, “Don’t want to go back.”

His chest aches, his eyes blur, he can hardly stand this, “You’re not gonna go back there, Emma,” he swears fiercely, “I won’t let anyone send you back there.”

She narrows her eyes and sniffles and more tears fall down her cheeks, “You sent me ‘way” she sobs brokenly, “’n mama sent me ‘way. ‘N the matriarch. N’ you sent me ‘way to the dark place. I don’t wanna go back, don’t send me ‘way to the dark place. Please—”

Dean pulls her in to his chest so tightly he worries he might hurt her, but she cries soundly into his shirts and he holds her, holds her for all she’s worth, wishes that he could absorb her pain through a simple hug, could take away every wrong that’s been done to this child…every wrong he’s ever done her. He sent her to hell. His own daughter, for no reason other than she’d been born a little less than human. It didn’t matter that it was Sam who pulled the trigger, he let it happen. He burned his daughter’s body and threw her ashes on the side of a highway like she was nothing, left her soul to rot defenseless in a hell where she fought for her existence every fucking day. No wonder she didn’t trust him; no wonder she was scared, fucking terrified, clawing her own hands raw and hiding in corners. She was trapped with a monster, all alone. 

His own tears fall on her head and no amount of lip biting will stop them; he sits down and he rocks her back and forth, slow and steady. 

“I won’t send you back there, Emma,” he tells her, voice breaking across the syllables but no less fierce for that, “I won’t let you go back there; shhhh, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I got you.”

“I want Cas,” she mumbles into his chest, “Want Cas.”

Dean’s throat burns, his vision swims, “I know you do; I know, I miss him too, I know, Em.”

“—want Cas—”

“I know, kiddo, I know, we’re gonna get ‘em back, I promise.” He doesn’t know what to say to make this better, “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Emma looks at him and he looks right back, and she caves a little bit, just the tiniest bit, “Promise?”

“I promise,” he’s never meant anything as much. 

“C’mon,” he carries her to the bathroom and sits her on the counter. He uses a washcloth to dab her cheeks and she lets him, which is progress in his book.

Dean situates Emma in the passenger seat and he drives them both to the nearest store. 

“You gonna have to wait here, okay?” she looks panicked, “Listen, it’s you and me, right? I’m not gonna leave you, once we have some clothes for you, you can come with me anywhere. If you go in there like that, they’re gonna take you away from me. Wait right here, and I’ll be back really quick, okay?” 

She nods and he isn’t sure he’s ever seen her look so scarred. He hands her a knife and places a quick kiss on her forehead, and tries not to think of all the ways he’s acting like his dad, all the ways that he swore he never would. 

He runs through Kmart like a madman. Emma is not the only one who is overwhelmed by civilization; the sights and colors and crowds are bizarrely jarring to him. Riffling through the little girls section is probably the most stressful and out of place he’s ever been in his life. He grabs things at random, approximating sizes, realizing anew how little he knows his own kid. Would she like princesses or dinosaurs? Green or purple or sparkly silver? Dresses or shorts or leggings? The only thing that he grabs with any degree of certainty is a Captain America t-shirt. The rest is guess work, one of everything. He feels like a pervert when he grabs a pack of little girl underwear. He gets her a small pair of sneakers and one of boots, and, with only the barest hesitation, he grabs her a stuffed bunny: floppy and brown and strangely forlorn. 

The young guy at the register looks at Dean’s harried expression with bewilderment but no judgment. 

“Divorce?”

“What?” Dean shakes his head, “No—I—”

“None of my business,” the kid shrugs, “but that’s what my dad did my first weekend staying with him.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean agrees, trying as hard as humanly possible not to think of the actual circumstances that necessitated this shopping trip, which include, but are not limited to the loss of Emma’s mother, and the closest thing to father’s she’s ever known, stuck with Dean instead, “First weekend flying solo.”

“Sorry, man,” the kid continues, “Suggestion?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Ice cream.”

Dean snorts, “Thanks.”

He half sprints to the car and is, again, incredibly relieved to find Emma waiting for him. He wonders if the cycle of panic and release will ever stop; it doesn’t seem like it. 

“See?” he tells her catching his breath, “I’m back.”

She nods and slips back into her seat. 

The drive back to the motel is quiet and it’s almost a relief to shut the door behind them and bolt the locks. 

Dean shows Emma the loot and she seems both curious and overwhelmed. 

“Pick what you want,” he prays she at least likes something, bizarrely self-conscious. 

She glances at him and back at the array of choices. Eventually, she selects the Captain America t-shirt and a pair of purple leggings and Dean helps her into them. 

Once she’s dressed, looking more like a little girl, and less like a feral warrior straight out of a demon realm, she inspects her bunny as if unsure of ever having seen something of its kind: soft, docile, made specifically for comfort. 

She eventually comes to some sort of conclusion about it (one which, thankfully, doesn’t necessitate stuffed animal homicide), she pulls it close to her chest, like Dean had done to her earlier, and makes a shushing sound deep in her throat, rocking slightly. 

Dean has to look away for a moment to regain his composure, when he faces her once more, she’s staring expectantly. 

“C’mere, Em,” he says and she comes closer, bunny in tow. 

He lets her clamber up on the bed next to him. 

He clears his throat as she settles down on a pillow, still watching him. 

Dean isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do until he opens his mouth. 

He sings to her. Softly, gruffly, slightly off key, though, he supposes, no more so than Benny. He hums “Smoke on the Water” and croons “Vienna” and finally, as Emma’s eyes begin to droop, he sings “Hey Jude,” long and low. Emma sleeps.


	12. Emergency Contact

Cas’ hand is on his chest, “Go,” Dean stumbles back and Emma screams. Cas looks wrecked, the Leviathan are closing in and Dean can’t—

He sits bolt upright with a painful gasp. He’s sweating and shaking. A nightmare. Emma is curled around her bunny and thankfully still asleep. 

Dean gets up and splashes water on his face, drinks some, too. Then he picks up the phone. He hadn’t had time yesterday, but, now…

He calls the first number—out of service. The next is too. It’s not until the third one is also disconnected, and the fourth has been reassigned, that he starts to panic. It takes him five more calls before he even gets a voicemail. 

“Sammy,” he says into the quiet of the room, “Sam, it’s me. I’m tryin to get a hold of you. I’m out, man. I got out. I’m in New Hampshire, motel eight. Call me, okay?”

Two more of Sam’s numbers are disconnected or out of service; he gets one other voicemail and that’s it. It’s like shouting into the wind and hoping for a response. Dean rubs at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. 

He needs to get a cell today; he needs to lift money to get a cell today; he needs to drive as far as he can on the road to Louisiana. He looks over at Emma, who is still (mercifully) sleeping, he needs to get his kid some proper nutrition. His stomach grumbles…himself too. He needs to not think about Cas. Don’t think about Cas; don’t think about Cas. Benny, then Sam. One thing at a time. One thing at a time. He’s about a second away from saying the serenity prayer; and two minutes away from telling the serenity prayer to go fuck itself. 

He gets back into bed as carefully as he can. It’s a little past three; and he lies on his back, arms crossed, looks at his girl. She’s wiped out; dark shadows under her eyes that no four year old should have. Emma is safe. Emma made it out. Emma is still with him. Emma is okay. Emma is sleeping. She’s safe; safe. He repeats that to himself like a mantra as he watches her chest rise and fall, and he lets that cadence lull him into a state of calm. 

He wakes sweating two hours later. Emma is hovering nearby, eyes wide and fearful. 

“Okay?” she asks tentatively, timorously. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he sits up with a groan. He glances at the clock, five is a good start—respectable even, “What d’you say we hit the road, huh?”

Emma nods. She wears her t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and her new sneakers. Dean needs to get some clothes for himself the next time they stop. 

Emma insists on keeping her bunny with her at all times, occasionally brushing a gentle hand over his ears, the way that Cas and Dean brushed her hair from her face. The sight is arresting. It keeps her from gouging her palms with her claws, and, for that small mercy, Dean is incredibly grateful.

They stop at a diner for breakfast; aside from a few truckers, it’s just them. The matronly waitress takes an interest in Emma’s serious face and calls her ‘cutie’ every chance she can. 

Dean feels weirdly overwhelmed by the menu. Emma looks bewildered, but ready to face the challenge bravely. 

“What do you want?” She shrugs tightly; she has, he realizes, no frame of reference for any of this stuff. 

He orders her waffles, fruit, and a glass of milk; because kids need to eat healthy; and that sounds vaguely nutritious; three food groups down. Grown-ups maybe can be let off the hook if they haven’t had proper food in a year and some change? That’s what he tells himself when he gets himself pancakes, a double order of hashbrowns, bacon, and coffee.

Emma and he stare at one another across the table. It’s one of the most uncomfortable silences that he’s ever experienced and that includes the time he drove cross country with a pissed off Ellen. Emma looks at him, and Dean looks back, and then away, and then at his hands, and the napkin dispenser, and his straw wrapper, which he shreds to pieces. It’s a relief when the food comes not only because it smells amazing, but because it gives him something to distract him from his agonizing inability to communicate (or even face) his kid in the bright light of day. 

The waitress smiles at Emma, and Emma, stone faced, just gazes back. He’s kind of weirdly impressed by the fact that she’s got such a killer stare. Her stomach rumbles loudly in the presence of food. Dean smirks, cuts her waffles into smaller bite sized pieces, and foists the plate across the table. She hesitates for only a second before diving in with gusto. 

Dean chuckles, she seems to have inherited his appetite, “Whoa, slow down, Speed Racer.”

She shoves a larger piece of waffle into her mouth and chews vigorously, staring him straight in the eye. Dean smiles, oh, she’s his kid all right. 

Emma doesn’t talk. Her overly solemn face and cold calculating, even warning, eyes, don’t stop everyone from doting on her. It’s either a testament to the kindness or stupidity of the human race. The old truckers sat at the counter smile at her fondly and the waitress is maybe a step away from pinching her little cheeks. Dean needs to get her out of there before that happens because Emma would probably bite off the woman’s fingers before they could make contact. He realizes, in a tactical way that makes him uneasy, that Emma could be a good distraction for his pick-pocketing needs. Shame rolls over him in an uncomfortable wave in the wake of that revelation. He herds her out of the dinner after paying the tab before he can indulge. 

Emma keeps two things with her at all times: her obsidian dagger and her stuffed Bunny. The former she keeps within hands’ reach, just beneath her slightly too big shirt. The latter she keeps nestled by her side or seated on her lap. She refuses to let anyone touch him (or her, Dean’s not sure which). The bunny is the only thing she talks to with regularity, and she doesn’t do so in English. Dean isn’t sure which language she is using because she speaks mostly in whispers, but he thinks it might be Enochian. 

The drive is awkward and tense. The radio fills the silence. Dean alternates between focusing on the two lanes before him, glancing at Emma, and drumming out an anxious tattoo against the steering wheel. 

He picks up a cellphone, an untraceable, pay as you go number. He dials all of Sam’s phones from the parking lot while a steady drizzle falls. Sam still doesn’t answer, and Dean tries not to panic. He leaves messages with his number; his location. He sighs and turns the phone over and over in his hands. He knows what he should do; knows what he ought to do; he doesn’t have many options. He’s alone. No Sam, no Benny, no Cas. In order to get any of them back…he needs help. He looks at Emma, sitting in the car, glaring through the window at random passersby. Dean’s not alone. That, he reminds himself, is why he needs help; he can’t drag Emma back and forth across the country on an endless loop. He frowns, his grip so tight around his new phone he’s in danger of breaking it—that’s no way to raise a child. 

He enters the digits and dials before he can change his mind. He shuffles in the rain, looking around warily, guiltily, forcibly trying not to think about how and why he can’t provide for his own child. 

It picks up after three rings. 

“Sheriff Mills?” he says, eyes locked on Emma, “It’s Dean, Dean Winchester.”


	13. Now I Lay Me

It takes about fifteen minutes to parse through the simple stuff. No, he’s not dead. No, she hasn’t heard from Sam. Yes, the Leviathan are gone (thank god). Where he’s been and why he needs help are more complex subjects.

“So, you’ve spent the past year in Purgatory,” she speaks slowly and clearly, trying to get the crazy straight, “and you brought back your daughter, who’s part monster, and your best friend is in your arm.”

Dean pinches his nose and closes his eyes against the headache, “Basically, yeah.”

“Okay.”

He frowns, “Okay?”

Jody’s determination is tangible, “Okay, that’s the situation. It’s a crazy situation, but what else is new? Now, what can I do?”

Dean is so relieved that he didn’t actually have to beg, that he could drop to his knees on the damp asphalt. 

“Where are you?” Jody continues.

“Uh,” Dean shakes his head, “Virginia.”

“How long is it going to take you to get to Louisiana?”

Emma is holding her bunny to her chest, eyes still scanning the crowd with a pronounced scowl. 

“A day, maybe two.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

“Jody, you don’t—”

“Dean,” she’s using the mother voice. Jody is maybe ten years older than he is, at most, but somehow she’s firmly entrenched in the same category as Ellen Harvelle and she commands the same respect, which is why whatever protest was bubbling on Dean’s lips is instantly silenced and his back straightens, “I’m coming. You need some help; I’ll text you the details.”

“Thanks, Jody.”

“See you soon, Dean.”

He pockets his phone, tilts his face up to the rain, and climbs back into the driver’s seat.

“You ready to get back on the road, kiddo?”

Emma meets Dean’s gaze, her hold on her bunny loosens rather than tightens in Dean’s presences, and she nods. 

She hums along to the radio very low and soft and barely there, but Dean catches it and smiles. He talks to her, fills the silences with stories and bad jokes and his off-key rendition of ‘Highway to Hell.’ She doesn’t often look at him, but he knows she’s listening, and, when she does turn to face him, it’s with Cas’ patented frown on her face: “I don’t understand your weird human references.’

He gets her a cheeseburger at lunch because he figures, with her chompers, meat is probably an integral part of her diet (or should be). He refuses to contemplate where that meat has come from, or consisted of, in the past. Her eyes fly wide at the burger, which is roughly as big as her face, and her nostrils flare wide. Dean cuts it in half so she won’t hurt herself, unhinging her damn jaw to inhale it, but the thing is gone in a matter of seconds and she sits back with a sleepy, contented look on her face that he’s never seen before; he chuckles while he eats his own burger at a slower pace. She smiles, half of her mouth rising ruefully to the side. It’s enough for him. They split a piece of cherry pie for dessert. She’s clearly never had anything even remotely like it, and, for Dean, it’s been so fucking long. They’re both making slightly obscene noises. 

“What a sweetie,” the waitress says when she walks over. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “She’s pretty awesome.”

“Takes after her daddy,” she says leaving the check.

Emma blushes and ducks her head.

Dean leaves some cash on the table, “C’mon, kiddo.”

They get back on the road and drive all afternoon. Emma gets tired, but she refuses to, or straight up can’t, sleep in the car. Dean wonders if it would be different if they had the Impala. He remembers curling up in the backseat, when he was her age. The rumble of the engine and the leather of the seats and Sam curled up by his side like a little puppy: that’s where he felt safe, where he felt home…the only place he felt at home after the fire. He wonders if Emma would feel safe enough to sleep there; has an image of her sprawled across the passenger seat, her little head safe on Cas’ lap…he shakes away the thought. 

They’re running low on cash, but there’s enough for a room. Dean gives Emma a bath, and she insists that they keep her bunny within her sight; she also insists that she put her pajamas on herself. 

“You gonna be okay, while I take a shower?”

She nods and sits on the second bed, bunny one hand, knife in the other. 

A responsible parent would probably not leave their kid alone with a sharp object, but he supposes it would be irresponsible to take away his child’s weapon when his kid is a born warrior. It would make him more uncomfortable to divest her of it; it’s a part of her. He would be more afraid leaving her alone without something to use in her defense.

The shower is hot and the water pressure is good and it feels nice to close his eyes, or, it would, if he weren’t faced with a painful array of images when he does: Cas mostly, occasionally a bleeding Emma, it sucks, makes him feel unsteady, dizzy, like there’s not enough air. You’re here man, he tells himself, Emma’s in the next room; you got out, and Cas is—he can’t breathe again. Focus on Emma, on Benny, on Sam; focus on what’s okay, but Cas is—he doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence Cas is what? Dead? Gone? Lost? Injured? Suffering? Fuck. Dean’s eyes burn. This time, for his own sake, he does pretend it’s the shampoo. 

He dries off, pulls on the clothes he grabbed at Walmart earlier. They fit better than the crap he’d ‘borrowed’; jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel on top. It’s a second skin of his own choosing. He considers his reflection in the mirror: his hair is in messy spikes and he has circles under his eyes. He can’t seem to shake the haunted wary expression on his face. It’s an countenance, an aura, that he shares with his daughter; a feral animal, a hunted creature, someone on the edge, on the defense, accustomed to being chased and ready to lash out immediately. He leans heavily against the sink and rubs a hand over his eyes. He’s so fucking tired. His kid should not resemble him so strongly. Not if that look is the mirror for how he feels. 

“Hey, Em,” he ambles back to the living area, “I thought maybe we could watch a movie if you—”

He stops dead in his tracks. The second bed is empty. He heart screeches to a paralyzing halt in his chest. 

Then it comes back, full force, beating out of control, “Emma!”

She’s not in the closet, hasn’t climbed into the duffle back, or stuffed herself in one of the dresser drawers; she’s not hiding in the corners. Dean is pretty sure he’s hyperventilating. The door is still latched shut, but that means shit because he knows what the hell exists in the world and he fucking can’t believe he left his fucking kid alone in this fucking room and he didn’t even fucking salt the windows; he is a fucking moron; what the hell is wrong with him?! He needs to—

“Fuck.”

He’s grabbing his knife and his keys when he freezes. The bed. He drops to his knees and peers into the dark space underneath. Golden eyes blink solemnly back at him from the darkness. The strength just flees his body; he half collapses on the floor. Emma is beneath the bed, hiding under the damn thing. Thank fucking god. He laughs slightly hysterically. 

“Holy shit.”

She’s coiled up in the farthest corner and she has her bunny beneath her chin, her knife wrapped around the outside. There’s a pillow at her feet. It’s unsanitary for her to be down there; there’s dust and gunk and who the fuck knows what else. He knows that. He can clearly imagine Sammy’s crinkled nose of disgust, but he’s so damn thankful that she’s still here that he can’t even be mad. 

“Shit, Emma, you scarred the hell out of me.”

She has the grace to look shamefaced at that. 

“You wanna come out of there?” 

She shakes her head. 

“You sure?”

She nods tightly. 

“Safe,” she whispers by way of explanation.

Dean sighs, nods. She doesn’t like to be alone. She’s been alone too long, is used to predators lurking in the night, but Emma is an Amazon, she’s meant to be part of a tribe; she’s a Winchester, she’s meant to be part of a family. She didn’t want to be out in the open, vulnerable, and, despite his best efforts, she still doesn’t trust Dean to come back, doesn’t trust that something won’t get her while he’s gone. He can’t blame her for that; trust is earned and he’s got a long way to go. His track record with losing people, especially people he cares about, isn’t exactly clean. It’s a trench warfare type of mess; bloody bodies lining the path of his life in broken array. He can’t let Emma become one of them, but he also knows that he might not be able to stop it from happening. Emma knows that too. His kid is four years old; she should be able to trust her parents to keep her safe from things that go bump in the night, the things that do terrible shit during the day; she should be able to trust her father to protect her; should sleep with the confidence that he’ll take care of her and provide for her and love her. She doesn’t. She has every reason not to. This kid is going to break his heart more times than he even thought possible. 

He takes a deep breath and chews on his bottom lip to keep it together. He grabs a pillow and a blanket, and he lies down on the floor in the space between the two beds, facing Emma. 

“You know,” he tells her, “this is a good spot.”

She nods again, cautiously with a wary expression. She’s puzzled by Dean’s actions, his motivations, unsure if he’s going to help or hurt. 

“You and bunny, okay?” he asks sincerely

She runs a small hand over bunny’s ears and inclines her head.

“Do you think it’d be okay if I crash down here with you?”

Emma watches him; her eyes widen, stretch impossibly wide. He’s surprised her. She doesn’t smile or frown, she just contemplates him, mulls his proposal over and over. Dean tries to relax in the interval, even though the question and its answer have him on tether hooks. Her eyes fade to a quite brown eventually, “Okay,” she whispers.

Dean releases the breath he’s been holding and he smiles at her, softly. “I’ll watch out for the monsters, Em,” he tells her, “get some sleep.”

She settles back into her corner, and Dean gets comfortable on the floor. After more than a year of sleeping on dirt and rocks and rotting logs, the motel room floor is actually much more familiar and easier for him than the squashy mattress. 

He looks over at her and she looks right back, expectantly.

Dean’s mouth tilts upwards of its own volition. He sings. ‘Simple Man.’ ‘Tuesday’s Gone.’ The words are cracked, but they come nonetheless; dredged up from his memory; concerts, highways, bars, diners, men and women, Sammy and Bobby and Jo. His mom. He ends with “Hey, Jude.”

When he glances at Emma, her eyes are closed and her breathing is even.

“Night, Em,” he murmurs, softly, gently. 

It’s not so easy for Dean to sleep. He tosses and turns, and he wakes in a cold sweat, a few hours later. He sits up, drenched and gasping and confused. 

He splashes water on his face in the bathroom. Gets himself a glass of water, tries to breathe normally. He sits on the edge of the bed, and he clasps his hands together, bows over them. He hates praying, he’s never been the praying type, but…

“God, this is stupid,” he curses, keeping his voice low, “Cas?” he looks up at the ceiling, at the door, towards the other bed. It’s ridiculous, childish, optimistic to the point of stupidity, but he half expects Cas to appear, good as new, perfect, unscathed, and they can…what? Pick up where they left off? Start over? Be one big happy fucking family? Fuck. 

He presses his forehead against his intertwined fingers, squeezes his eyes tight shut. 

“Cas, if you can hear this—god, I hope you can hear this,” he voice is low and ragged, “We’re out; Emma and me, we’re okay; we made it. You—you saved us, man. We’re on our way to get Benny…find Sam, and then we’re gonna come for you, Cas—you hear me?” Silence, “We’re gonna come and get you; we’re gonna get you out of there. So you need to hold on. Hold on for me, okay? Emma needs you…I need you, so, don’t do anything stupid, okay? We’re—” what? What exactly are we? Brothers in arms? Co-parents? Best Friends? The angel and the Righteous Man? The fools who thought that they could save the world and broke it instead? We’re unfinished. There needs to be more. “—we’re family, Cas…we’re gonna get you. I’m coming for you. So just—hold on.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Feels shame and fear crawl over and across his skin. He settles back on the floor and closes his eyes. When he turns to his side, Emma blinks at him. 

“Sorry I woke you,” he tells her. 

Her brow creases and she crawls over until she’s close enough to reach out a hand, which she does. She lays it on top of Dean’s, in comfort and solidarity. 

“Cas?” she queries softly. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Cas.”

She gazes at him soulfully, and, if anyone could appreciate the full extent of his sorrow, it would be her. She squeezes his fingers with her own much smaller ones. They’re the same shape, he notices in the dark. 

He brushes her hair gently off her face, “Thanks, Emma.”

She smiles softly, “Sleep,” she tells him, and he does.


	14. Getting to Know You

Something shifts after that. Maybe it’s their shared grief that unites them, maybe it’s that Emma saw Dean’s heart a little bit, saw his soul somehow, like his sadness and weariness let her know that he wasn’t the monster she always thought he was. It’s a little bit too much like Beauty and the Beast quite frankly, and, therefore, at least a little disturbing, but whatever it is that’s changed, it makes things more comfortable between them.

It’s hard to explain exactly, because it’s not like either of them are super vocal, but the air between them feels clearer. Emma seems less afraid that he’s going to kill her in her sleep, and Dean is less worried that she’s going to either stab him or run away, or both. The frisson of tension that ran between them whenever they were alone before has abated and in its place lies a calmer silence, an opportunity, an open pathway waiting to be explored. 

It takes two more days to reach Louisiana. They drive along I-95 and all they have is time and each other (and Bunny, but he doesn’t say very much). The radio fills the silence, and Dean breaks his own rules and lets Emma choose the station. Her eyes light up, and she enjoys playing with the dials and buttons. She wants to sample everything. Her whole face scrunches up in disgust at techno and she is bored with NPR, and Dean approves of both of those judgments. He ruffles her hair and she ducks, confused by the gesture. He explains, as Cas would have done, that it’s a gesture of affection, of play, of fondness. She considers this soberly and then resumes her sampling of music. She likes jazz and rock and R&B. Pop is hit or miss. Mumford and Sons are a win, but Lady Gaga makes her flail and change the station violently. It takes about an hour of this for Dean to realize that Emma likes natural voices and un-synthesized instruments. She’s blissed out listening to Bob Dylan, bobbing her head with the beat and humming. He knows that feeling sort of—the way that music can make you feel less alone, can help fill up those empty spaces inside of you that gape and ache when there’s too much silence, when you’re alone with yourself. 

He talks to her about the instruments, the genres, the artists, and she listens, eyes bright, hanging on every word. 

“I used to play guitar,” he tells her, “I’m better with air guitar, you know,” he winks and plays a few imaginary chords. She looks Cas-puzzled (it’s an expression that is starting to have numbers and individual articulations, much like a bitchface, but less affronted).

He clears his throat, but doesn’t roll his eyes, “I can teach you if you want, with uh, an actual guitar.”

She considers his proposition, like everything, very carefully. Emma doesn’t take things lightly, doesn’t rush off half-cocked. Emma, of all the Winchesters, seems to have inherited or acquired a level head. Dean is exceptionally thankful for that; though he wishes that it had not come at so high a cost. 

She eventually nods. He offers her his hand, which she flinches from (still, maybe always, her first response to motion in her direction), and then eyes it dubiously. Dean wants to cry because of it, wants to go back to Purgatory and cut a murderous swath through the desolate landscape, killing every bastard who dared to even look at his child wrong. He wants to know, in exacting detail, what brought her to the point where every gesture was a preface for pain; he wants to never know the details and the role that he played in allowing them to happen. 

“You shake it,” he instructs, swallowing past the guilt, the pain, the anger, “it’s how we make a deal. A promise.”

She’s got a strong grip. 

“Sweet.”

Emma likes meat: burgers, steaks, chicken. Dean’s half-afraid that her killer canines will descend mid-restaurant, but they really thankfully do not. He realizes later, that it’s because she’s being fed regularly that she’s able to control that response. She doesn’t like french-fries, but she loves fruit. Pineapples, strawberries, blackberries, oranges: they’re all a huge hit. Dean turns an orange slice into a smiley face,and Emma almost laughs. He swears, his shriveled grinchy heart almost grows three sizes in response. It grows a fourth when she mimics the gesture perfectly, and he laughs so hard he has to take a minute to catch his breath. It’s the first time he’s laughed in what feels like an eternity, and it physically hurts, but it’s a good hurt all things considered. Emma is shocked by the response; laughter is almost as alien to her as it is to him, but she also looks proud of herself.

He catalogs all the facets of Emma’s likes and dislikes, tallies her responses and her comfort, watches her carefully and closely, as if a few days of concern and monitoring can help to make up for three years of torture and abandonment. It can’t make up for it; he shakes his head ruefully, but it’s a start. 

When they eat at Big Gerson’s the waitress, a young thing with dimples and a sunny smile, brings Emma crayons. She scrutinizes them with a wrinkled up nose and critical eye; Dean is painfully aware of the fact that she’s checking their lethality. 

He clears his throat, when she gives up testing the points and sits back in her seat in complete disgust. What is the point of these strange colored objects, so easily broken, so useless in a fight? 

He tries to keep his face and his voice level, “They’re to draw.”

She cocks a dubious eyebrow. 

He flips over his place-mat and uses a green crayon to draw a stick figure of himself and her. He’s not Michelangelo or whatever, but it’ll do. 

He pushes it towards her, “See?”

She blinks a few times and then picks up the blue crayon. She draws another figure next to picture-Dean and uses a purple crayon to draw another, larger figure next to picture-Emma. She keeps working, coloring furiously, intently focused on her task, while the waitress returns, bearing juice for Emma and coffee for Dean. 

When the drinks are settled, he glances over at the place-mat. Emma is highly engrossed. The colored family, for it can be nothing else, settled in the center of the paper could not be more clear. He can’t help but notice that she’s positioned Cas next to Dean. In the picture, they’re holding hands. Emma has her tongue between her teeth, a frown on her face, and she keeps coloring, only now, she’s drawing a veritable slew of sigils around the little family. Dean knows Cas taught them to her, he watched the two of them, carving the markings into the earth, over and over. Cas correcting Emma’s grip, praising her work. These are the same marks. Their execution, much like her drawing in general, is clear and precise. Emma’s fine motor skills are highly attuned and her tiny hands move dexterously over her canvas. Dean picks out the Enochian sigils for protection, for family, for strength. The rest are more complicated and he doesn’t know them. She switches colors for each new one. The page is quickly filled to capacity. Symbols and sigils of various sizes squeezed into every inch of the available space. Finally, Emma sits back and surveys her handiwork. On paper, at least, her tiny family is safe; covered from all sides with all the protection she can muster. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to figure out where Emma’s heart or head is at. 

She looks at Dean as if only noticing that he’s there, and she ducks her head, suddenly shy. 

He’s momentarily unsure whether to acknowledge or ignore what’s just transpired, “That’s a really nice picture.” 

She ducks her head further, till a screen of her hair partially hides her face, she glares at him defiantly from beneath the cover, as if unsure if he’s teasing her. 

“Seriously, you’re a pretty awesome artist.”

She fiddles with a crayon. 

“Did Cas teach you those marks?”

A nod.

“Wow, and you remembered ‘em all?” he whistles, “That’s really impressive, Em.”

Her eyes dart up to meet his, lively, intelligent, listening intently. 

“I don’t even know them,” he confesses. He’s not putting on a show; he’s legitimately awed; feels a swelling of parental pride bubbling up inside his chest. He can’t take credit for this, for Cas’ teaching skills, for Emma’s intelligence and ability, but, somehow, still, he’s incredibly, amazingly, proud of her. It’s stifling, incredible, this feeling.

She tucks her hair behind her ears, sits straighter. 

“Maybe you can teach me, too?”

Another nod. 

“Awesome.” 

They eat cheeseburgers and when they leave, Emma’s drawing clutched proudly, safely, in her hands, Dean pockets a package of crayons and a few place-mats for the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say THANK YOU so much for taking the time to read, kudo, and comment on this story. I really, truly, deeply appreciate all of the feedback and kindness. This fic has been a labor of love (and agony) over the past few weeks/months, and it's really incredible to have such a kind reception for it. I'm going to endeavor to post a chapter every week until the story is complete. Feedback is always appreciated. Again, thanks for the overwhelming and amazing generosity of your time and receptivity for this story. xo


	15. Love the One You're With

The closer they get to Louisiana the more Dean’s arm hurts. It aches like his joints do in the winter. It glows, too. He wears his sleeves rolled down and has to shake out his hand every so often to dispel the discomfort. 

Emma seems to sense that they’re nearing their destination. She sits upright and restless, straining against her seatbelt, holding Bunny tight to her chest with one hand and keeping her knife ready in a fighting position with the other, as if she will be expected to jump out of the moving vehicle and into a fight at a moment’s notice. 

When they do stop, Emma unbuckles her seatbelt and proceeds to launch herself out of the truck, knife at the ready. He hastens over to her side of the car and intercepts, throwing an arm around her middle before she can run, full tilt, into the Big Gurson’s, looking like she’s about to go on a murderous rampage. That’s the kind of shit that gets you arrested or reported. 

“Easy, tiger,” he tells her, and she looks up at him with a bitch face to rival Sam at his best. 

He has to stifle a grin, afraid that she might stab him in the thigh as a punishment for not taking her seriously. Her little face scrunched into a mighty scowl, “how dare you stop me, mortal” it seems to proclaim, and, suddenly, once again, her resemblance to Cas is startling. Dean has to clear his throat before he speaks. 

“We’re not hunting for dinner, warrior princess,” he nods are her knife, and he wonders, briefly, if he’s going to have to actually wrestle it from her fingers before she sighs with the insufferable patience of her four years and stows her weapon beneath her shirt. She glares at Dean as if to say, “there, are you happy now?” 

“Thanks,” he beams at her, and she frowns ever more deeply, another subtle transition from Sam to Cas in the set of her face. 

She’s jumpier than ever at the table. Twitchy, fidgety, agitated and overstimulated; she has no patience for the coos and coddles of the various servers and patrons, and Dean is legitimately concerned that she may endeavor to stab, dismember, and/or disembowel someone for looking at her wrong. 

He’s on edge himself. His arm hurts like a bitch; he’s tired, exhausted, stressed. He’s barely a hair’s breadth away from imitating his toddler. Sam still hasn’t answered or returned his calls; Jody is going to meet them in two days’ time, which is awesome, but…not enough; he feels selfish for even thinking that, because she doesn’t owe him shit, and, still, she’s going out of her way to help him—he glances across the table were Emma is absently twirling her butter knife with an air of disdain—help them, he amends. Benny is close, provided everything goes right (which, when has that ever happened?), and it’s a light at the end of the tunnel in some ways, but, fuck…Dean is doing okay with Emma—she hasn’t died on his watch, which is more than he can say for the last time they spent time alone together, but, even so, it’s terrifying to contemplate the fact that he might be going alone for the long haul…that he might be the one taking care of this kid, his kid, solo, for life—for her life…he feel like he might pass out or vomit because there’s no way that he can be the parent she needs or deserves, and it’s too fucking much. His arm throbs painfully and he closes his eyes, tries inhaling through his nose, counting to ten, pressing his fingers against his forehead. 

For a second, his mind drifts. He imagines Cas sitting with Emma, coloring on the placemats together, drawing cartoonish figures and Enochian sigils and helping one another, inviting him to join in. Cas insisting that Emma finisher her broccoli and smiling indulgently as Emma and Dean eat their apple pie a la mode, rubbing his foot against Dean’s leg under the table. He wishes. Dean shakes himself back to the present, where Emma has crawled over to sit next to him at the table, peering at him with something remarkably like concern.

“I’m okay, kiddo,” he reassures her. She looks only moderately eased. 

They skip out on the check; Dean is aware that he’s setting a shitty example for Emma, but he can’t necessarily be bothered to care right now. Funds are low and desperation is the mother of necessity or something. They drive into the night, well past the point that they would ordinarily stop, and Emma grows more tired and more agitated. Dean’s arm is positively throbbing; he’s got a crick in his neck and a headache pounding behind his eyes. He rubs at his face, though not as fitfully as Emma does from the passenger’s seat. They break off of the highway for the first time in what feels like years, beginning to wind down the back country paths and gravelly streets that will lead them to Benny’s bones. 

Dean pulls to a stop about two miles out in a clearing. Tall grasses, an abandoned farmhouse, the property is surrounded by a thick tree line; there’s probably a creek nearby because, when he cuts the engine, he can hear frog song joining in with the crickets. It’s a clear night and without the headlights he and Emma are cloaked in darkness. 

Her eyes glow tarnished gold in the absence of light, clearly alarmed, and she stares at him, critically and confusedly. 

“We’re gonna stop here for the night,” he tells her.

“No,” she says.

He sighs; he didn’t think she would be willing to simply go with the flow, but he had hoped. 

“Em…” he begins. 

“No,” she folds her arms tightly across her chest; at the very least, she is not brandishing a weapon at him to punctuate her refusal; my, how far they have come. 

“Look,” he begins, and then, suddenly, quick as a flash, Emma is out of the car and running into the field, and “Son of a bitch,” Dean leaps out of the car, following after her. She’s quick despite her fatigue, darting like a small deer, light on her feet, fast as a whip. He’s going to lose her in the dark. He’s slow, tired, at the end of his rope, and he cannot lose her. 

“Emma,” he hisses desperately, the last ditch effort of a drowning man, “Emma, stop!”

Surprisingly, amazingly, she does just exactly that, dropping to the ground like her strings have been cut, she goes down with such suddenness and finality that Dean has one terrifying moment where, against all evidence to the contrary, he’s absolutely horrified that she’s been shot. He struggles to come to a halt without losing her or tripping over her and he barely manages it. 

She’s sitting there in the grass, glaring and baring her teeth and folding herself around Bunny, who is clutched protectively to her chest. 

Dean takes a deep breath, wills his heart back to a steady pace (he’s unsuccessful) and he gets down to Emma’s level; sits on the ground about a foot way, ignoring the dampness of the earth under his ass. It’s harder to ignore Emma’s sniffles. He’s broken form tonight; there have been maybe three constants in Emma’s short life, bath time, sleep time, and ritual of stopping for the night, increasingly that has involved actual shelter; a room with a bed (to sleep beneath in his daughter’s case) and a dresser. There has been the ritual of salting doors and windows, etching sigils around the perimeter, creating a safe space in so far as possible. That had carried over from their journey across Purgatory. Dean has interrupted every single one of those small rituals, those tiny anchors of familiarity, tonight, and Emma is angry, upset, unsettled, and uncomfortable. No wonder she’s freaking out. It doesn’t help that every one of those touchstone moments of her routine—however meager they may be—is ultimately associated with Cas. It’s a pang in his chest; it’s a brutal gaping wound in hers.

“I know this is hard, Em,” he tells her, making his voice soft and quiet, gentle, “it sucks; this whole thing sucks.”

She looks askance at him, worrying her lower lip between her tiny fangs. Her mouth is going to bleed again soon. Fuck.

“This isn’t fair…I know it’s not; you don’t deserve any of this,” he affirms, his throat thick, “you didn’t ask for it, and none of this, Emma, none of this is your fault.”

There are tiny droplets of blood forming on her mouth, and Dean wants to wipe them away, but he doesn’t want to spook her with touch, when it seems she may be listening, even if she doesn’t believe him.

“You didn’t deserve the bad place,” he almost whispers, “you didn’t deserve what happened to you,” he thinks of the scars on her tiny form, the malnutrition, the sleepless nights, the complete unfamiliarity and, almost fear, of affection, of touch, “and what happened to Cas—”

Her face swivels so that her gaze is unerringly fixed upon him, it’s only then that he can see the tear tracks on her face. She’s trained herself to cry silently, he knows, all those years alone, abandoned, hunted, and scared to make a sound lest someone or something tear her to pieces in the night. 

“—what happened to Cas was not your fault, Emma,” he bites his own lip before he speaks again, “you deserve a warm bed, and a home; you deserve to feel safe, protected—” loved, “—and I’m gonna give you that; I promise you,” he prays to whatever absent god may be listening that time won’t prove him a liar. 

“It’s askin’ a lot, kid, I know it is, but, just hold on a little bit longer, okay?” Give me a chance to make it better.

Emma is looking at Bunny, gently stroking his ears. 

“I want Cas,” she whispers, voice a broken thing. Of course she does, Cas was the one who treated her like she meant something, was worth something, right from the start; worth love, worth saving; worth care and kindness and affection; worth that unconditional devotion that Cas gives to those he cares about in spades. Why wouldn’t she want Cas? Dean wants Cas for almost the exact same fucking reasons. “I want Cas,” she half sobs, trying so hard to be stoic, to be brave, but crumpling under the weight of grief, exhaustion, and stress. Suddenly, for one of the first and only time’s that he’s known her, Emma most strongly resembles him, and it is the last thing that he ever would have wanted.

“I know, baby,” he says, and he’s not sure where the term came from, but it rolls naturally off of his tongue in this moment, in the presence of his baby, his child, who needs him. His heart is shattering in his chest, its ruptured fragments digging deep into his sternum, leaving scars that he’ll never erase, that he doesn’t deserve to, “I know; it’s okay, Emma; it’s gonna be okay.”

Emma looks at him, and her face crumples, his strong girl, just falls apart, and she crawls into his lap and wraps her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life, and Dean holds her back, just as fiercely, rocking her back and forth in a soothing motion. “I’m here,” he tells her, knowing it’s a poor substitution for Cas, knowing that certainty deep in his bones, feeling the agony of his own grief rising to merge with hers, but offering what he can, “I’m here.” 

For now, the clinging arms seem to tell him, that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say THANK YOU, once again, so much for all of the amazing feedback, encouragement, and love that you guys have given me. I honestly never expected this story to receive the wonderful reception that it has and it warms me to the very cockles of my heart. I hope that you enjoy this latest installment; I'm trying to post weekly. Any feedback would be much appreciated. As always, thank you for taking the time to read and comment and follow this story. It's so deeply appreciated.


	16. Hush Little Baby

He carries Emma back across the field, places her gently on the hood of the truck, and fumbles around in the back before pulling out a blanket, which he uses to line the truck bed. It’s soft, if somewhat lumpy, an ugly venomous green, stolen from the hotel before last, but it serves its purpose in that it cushions the metal shell enough that they can lay back without fear of severe injury or discomfort. He’s not sure if Emma can contract human illnesses like tetanus, but he does know that she’s not vaccinated, and he would really like to avoid giving her a fatal illness on top of the nearly fatal case of daddy and abandonment issues that he’s already passed on. He tucks the edges a bit, fussing somewhat needlessly—there isn’t much you can do to really make this comfortable, but he’s doing his damnedest with what he’s got—and, he thinks, briefly, fleetingly, of Cas, tucking Emma warm and safe beneath the folds of his coat.

When he goes back around to claim her, she blinks at him owlishly and looks away, tucking her chin. She’s embarrassed by her outburst, unsure of her footing, metaphorically anyway; her literal footing, as she transitions from hood to bed, is as stealthy and dexterous as ever, all the more so for being conducted with downcast eyes. She doesn’t want to look at him. He doesn’t blame her; he’s responded that way to gestures of affection and his own sudden outbursts of need his whole damn life. It makes him unbearably sad that Emma has learned that behavior; it may not have been from him directly, but it was because of him that she picked it up, and he swears that he will devote his whole fucking life, if necessary, to making her realize that she doesn’t have to be that way. 

She clambers into the makeshift bed that Dean’s made, the nest of blanket, and she perches at its edge. Dean climbs up with less finesse and he leans back, one arm cushioning his head. Emma sits with her knees folded up to her chest in the corner across from him. Dean fixes his gaze on the night sky, giving her space; it’s so clear here; no city lights to distort the view. Purgatory didn’t have sky, not like earth does, didn’t have stars. He’d forgotten the beauty of it—the deep, almost velvety purple and blue, the constellations that are strewn across it, the crescent moon, glittering silvery white. 

He isn’t sure what he’s going to say to her, what he can say to her, until he speaks, and even then the words topple out of him, skipping and slipping over themselves without his direction.

“You know,” he says to the dark, speaking as if to himself, though he knows Emma can hear, is listening intently, “when I was your age, I lost my mom,” it’s strange how, even so many years later, the very thought brings tiny pin pricks of tears to his eyes, “it wasn’t my fault, but it sure felt like it, for a long time,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, the air is humid, smells of earth and rain, “I miss her, still do; it’s hard when you lose somebody, but just cause they aren’t with you, it doesn’t mean that they love you any less.”

Emma doesn’t say a word in response. 

“I didn’t want to talk for a long time after she died,” he confides, shrugging little, frowning against the burning sensation at the back of his throat, thinking of the angels his mom always said were watching over him, “guess I didn’t feel like I could say anything; like the words were, stuck, ya know? That was okay; too,” he’s about to head into cliché land pretty fucking hard, but he can’t quiet help it, “I know you like talkin’ to Cas and Benny; cause they’re real good listeners, but, you know, when you do feel like talkin’, I’ll listen too.”

Emma’s face is swathed in shadow. Her eyes, for once, are not glowing in the night, and Dean can’t tell what she’s thinking or feeling or how much he’s fucked things up. 

“My mom,” he continues carefully, “she was awesome: brave and strong, like you…she would have loved you,” he tells her, “you woulda given her a run for her money.”

“My mama,” Emma says, quietly, “didn’t want me.”

Dean’s eyes fix on her face, which has moved closer, drawn by the low rumble of his voice; it’s still difficult to read her expression, but the pain in her words, the brokenness, and the heartbreak is the final twist of the knife in his heart. His kid was alone in the woods of hell for years, scrounging to survive, beaten and bloody and scared out of her fucking mind, and, in addition, she went through all that secure in the knowledge that no one fucking wanted her; she didn’t even have the dream of a mom or a dad or a brother or a sister coming to save her, looking for her. She had the botched memory of her father rejecting her, the vague awareness of her uncle shooting her, and the knowledge that her mother willingly gave her away, and her clan, that was supposed to look out for her, sent her to her death. She thought she was worthless, useless, unloved, unmourned, broken, fucking defective. Dean can’t even—all those times, hell and Purgatory, he had the memory of being loved, however distant, however undeserved—by his mom, by his brother—the hope that someone would come for him; his child didn’t even have that. Fuck.

He thinks of Lydia; he didn’t fucking know her for more than a few hours, most of which involved either lies or decidedly nonverbal communication. He hopes to god that she at least felt a pang for this girl when she sent her away; that she knew for an instant at least, the type of agony that Dean can only imagine giving Emma up now. How do you tell your own kid that, yeah, she’s right, her mom didn’t want her and neither did you at first? How the fuck do you do that?

He works his jaw; Emma would smell a lie, “I don’t know, Em.”

Her lip trembles, and she clutches Bunny ever more closely to her chest; a death grip on the only thing on earth that she trusts to comfort her.

“But, I’m gonna tell you something,” he tucks a finger her under her chin, forces her to meet his gaze, “she would have been crazy not to cause, you, you’re awesome.”

Her tiny jaw clenches and she looks so fragile in that moment, so tiny and frail, his little warrior, “I want you,” he tells her the words cut him on the way out with their unbridled honesty, with the depth of how much he wants this kid. Her eyes widen in disbelief, as if being wanted is something so far beyond the realm of possibility that she cannot even begin to comprehend it. 

“I need you,” his voice breaks, almost as painfully as his heart, “we’re family.”

Her whole body tenses at those words, and Dean thinks that he’s miss stepped. That this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back and sends her sprinting away into the woods. He kicks himself for being an idiot and an asshole and pushing too hard, too fast, wanting something unattainable with this kid. He braces himself for rejection; what he doesn’t brace himself for is Emma. She flings herself at his chest and clings like a limpet, tiny arms clutching at his torso, wet cheeks smashed against his heart. He’s so startled that, for a moment, he doesn’t know what to do; looks down at her as if she’s an apparition or a hallucination, but then he softens, envelops her tiny frame in his arms and quiets her, in so far as possible; she needs a parent, a grown up, someone to love her, and, god, does he want to be that person. His heart is fit to bursting with how much he wants to be that person. It feels like it’s swelling to fill his whole chest cavity trying to break free and wrap her tight. Maybe he only gets this for tonight, for this moment, but she’s his and he’s hers and that’s all that matters; that he’s there for her when she needs it. He hums Metallica under his breath and brushes her hair back from her face and gives her his sleeve to blow her snotty nose and wipe her face. She quiets, lulled by his off key song and the thrum of his heart and the soothing hand he rubs in circles on her back. 

“It’s okay, Em,” he tells her, “I’m here; it’s gonna be okay.”

As okay as he can make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone who has read, reviewed, commented, and supported this story. I cannot emphasize how much it means to me. I could never have anticipated such a warm reception for this story. You're amazing. New chapter will be posted next week. Sending love in the meantime. Love to hear what you'd think about the latest installment. xo


	17. Rise and Shine

The ritual has to be done just before dawn. Good time for resurrection…for rituals anyway, in Dean’s personal experience, time’s got little to do with being brought back from the dead, but, hey, the recipe calls for pre-dawn, and Dean’s not gonna deviate from the cook book when he’s got so much riding on the outcome. Emma had fallen asleep on his chest in the bed of the truck; a warm heavy weight draped across his torso. He hadn’t slept himself, just laid there, with his arm wrapped around her shoulders; holding her safe and close; watching the stars, feeling the precious rise and fall of her chest; the fluttered beating of her heart. That had been enough for him. 

He wakes her gently, trying not to startle her, but she moves into consciousness with the readiness and speed of a trained soldier or a fugitive. Bright eyed, ready to flee or fight as the situation demands. He has to hold his hands up as a peace offering before she cools down, gazing at him with a combination of confusion and criticism. 

“Time to go get Benny,” he reminds her and she nods, prepared for their mission, determination etched into the set of her jaw. 

They do have a contingency plan this time, which is more than he can say for the past few weeks. He’s determined to make sure that, worst case scenario, Emma has recourse to help…Just in case everything goes pear shaped. He quizzes Emma on it before he does anything else. In the event of some terrible shit going down, she’s to text 911 to Jody. Sheriff Mills has the coordinates of where they are; she can meet with Emma in two days. He reminds Emma of this and makes her repeat the plan back to him; making absolutely certain that she knows what to do. 

His heart is pounding an uncertain tattoo. There are still too many what ifs. 

“You know what to do, okay?” his voice is gruff; and he feels the weight of his father on his shoulders; like the words themselves are tainted by the ghost of his own childhood. Emma stares up at him and he knows intimately, painfully, what it was like to be on the other side of this interaction. He can see, somehow, himself in Emma; his own face superimposed over hers. He remembers his father leaving, always leaving, with instructions for Dean. Take care of Sammy. Shoot first; ask questions later. Call Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim if there’s an emergency. He’s doing the same now, and it’s like being shot in the stomach. Bleeding internally, toxins spreading through his chest. He never wanted a kid for exactly this reason; he didn’t want to do this to someone else, yet here they are.

Emma nods, her face a mask of tension. Not ten minutes ago, she had curled up with him, sleeping as if she trusted him completely; as if he would care for her unconditionally and she believed it. Now, her features are frozen; tight and riddled with anxiety and betrayal. He wonders if he can regain what was lost, or if it will be like this forever and ebbing flow of trust and betrayal in light of Dean’s fuck ups. 

On impulse (ah, foolish impulse), he goes to place a kiss on her forehead, but Emma flinches back sharply before he can connect. Her rejection is a slap to the face, however much deserved. He bites his lip, and exhales, brushes a hand against her hair instead; her whole form is rigid beneath his hand. 

“All right,” he sighs, resolved, resigned, “I’ll be back.”

Emma’s eyes glow, the dusky golden stare calls him a liar. He feels the weight of her gaze as he walks across the gravel road to find Benny’s grave. 

Digging up the corpse is a bitch. His arm throbs and aches; Benny’s soul twisting beneath his skin; burning the muscles laboring to unearth his bones. 

“All right,” he grunts, “We’re almost there—impatient bastard.”

He’s dripping sweat, covered in grave dirt, exhausted, muscles shaking and tight, he’s got a permanent knot in his shoulder, and he’s at least half afraid that Emma has done a bunk in his absence. He has to dig one handed after a certain point, which is just fucking great. 

About half way through the job, he looks up to find a small face peering down at him, and jesus fucking Christ, Dean Winchester likes to think that he’s pretty good with not being spooked or surprised, people don’t usually get the jump on him, but, fuck, Emma scares the shit out of him. 

He actually jumps back before he glares at her. She’s looking somehow, both resentful of him and pleased with herself, and he really wishes that time-outs were an option—or a some kind of GPS implant. 

“I told you to wait in the truck,” it’s all he can do not to yell.

She glares defiantly, chin jutted up.

He glares back. Somehow he is having a staring contest with his four year old, who is (literally and figuratively) looking down on him because he is desecrating a grave in the middle of the fucking night in the middle of fucking nowhere. And she is pissed at him for not including her in this misadventure. This is not what her life should be. To add insult to injury, he loses the staring contest. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, counts to ten, wipes his brow, and picks up his shovel. 

“Fine,” he tells her, grudgingly, “but you stay right there, where I can see you.” 

“Okay?” he adds after a moment.

She looks imperiously down upon him before nodding perfunctorily, every inch the beleaguered monarch deigning to the wishes of her peasants. She gets that, he thinks, ruefully rubbing his eyes, from Cas.

Dean pushes that thought away, buries it deep down under all the other shit that’s bubbling and boiling and burning his insides, and gets back to work, periodically glancing up at Emma to make sure she’s still there. She is, watching the proceedings, like she does most things, with rapt interest, curiosity, and a certain degree of calculation. 

She’s too young for this, he thinks, to distract himself from the flaring agony spreading up his arm—nothing like emotional masochism to keep you going in spite of physical pain. She’s too young for everything she’s been through. Dean should have been there protecting her from that; he should have at fucking least been able to keep her from this. Way to fuck up again, Winchester. 

Dean didn’t go on a salt and burn until he was eleven. The smell made him sick; he had to swallow back the vomit cause he didn’t want his dad to know, to think he was weak, a sissy. In return, his dad had let him light the match. Now here he is, twenty-five years later, letting his fucking four year old, help him dig up a bunch of bones—that belong to her fucking vampire pseudo-uncle—and the worst part is that this isn’t even the worst thing she’s seen in her short life. It isn’t even close. He feels, strangely, again, that old desire to throw up in a grave for entirely different reasons...

Benny didn’t have a coffin, just a corpse thrown in an unordered heap. No prayers and funeral for a wayward vampire, just a nice botched decapitation and hole in the ground. At least the shallowness of the grave works in Dean’s favor now; he doesn’t feel like his arm could take another two feet of dirt and breaking open a pine box on top of it all. 

He finally pulls himself out of the grave, and sits for a moment, cradling his arm; it feels like it’s on fire, before dragging himself to his feet. Emma comes to stand beside him, peering at him with something like concern. Her mouth twists and she pats his knee twice, in something like sympathy, which is startling, before she tenses and skirts away again. It’s clear that she has not forgiven him for trying to leaving her behind; but she also doesn’t want him to drop dead in Benny’s grave so there’s that. 

“You gotta stand back for this part,” he grunts at her, out of breath and exhausted. 

She scowls.

He sighs, “Please.”

She backs up about five yards. He considers that reasonable, it’s the best he’s gonna get right now. 

He wishes Cas were here. Cas would sit with her; Cas would lay his hand on Dean’s arm, and look him in the eye, and somehow that would be enough, powers or not, to make him feel better, lessen his burden. Emma would listen to Cas if he told her to sit in the truck; Cas—Dean’s eyes burn and he shakes his head to clear it. Now is not the time for imaging how much his life would improve with Cas here; how things would be better if Cas were here. 

After wrangling Emma and digging up a corpse, the ritual itself is not that bad. A couple of grunted words in Latin, a knife to his skin, carving out the soul, it’s not exactly a new task…the newness comes in the way that Benny’s essence oozes out of the exit wound, congealing and burning. The closest comparison is a blister tearing open and the plasma oozing out, leaving newly exposed tender flesh behind, only, in this case, the plasma is a lot more like molten lava, and Dean feels like he might be dying a little bit. Getting Benny out, hurts a lot worse than getting him in. 

There’s a strange hissing and sparks of electricity or magic or whatever the fuck else where soul hits skeleton, and Dean looks away while once the soul has finally been purged, stumbling backwards, trying to keep his footing. His arms stings, but the throbbing ache, the weight, the boiling sensation is gone; it’s a relief. Come on, he hopes, come on. He needs Benny, needs his friend. 

“Took you long enough,” comes a smooth Cajun voice from behind him. Dean actually feels like he might collapse in relief. Thank fuck. 

He turns around, with a shake of his head and a wide smile, hurting his cheeks, “I wasn’t exactly like you were right next door.”

“Uhuh,” Benny drawls, and Dean laughs, relieved, unburdened, and, for the first time in an age, not alone. Hugging Benny seems like the only thing to do at this point. 

“We made it,” he says. 

“Sure did.”

They separate, “Everything okay?” Dean asks; suspicious of the clean break of the ritual. Benny flashes his teeth and retracts them, stretches his neck with a loud pop.

“Looks like it.”

Dean sighs, “Good,” he nods, abrupt, “that’s real good.”

Benny’s eyes narrow, taking in the set of Dean’s jaw. 

“The angel?” he asks.

Dean licks his lips, works his mouth, “He didn’t make it.”

Benny averts his gaze, shakes his head, sorrowfully, mournfully, “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well…” there’s nothing to say; nothing he can say; there aren’t words for this shit, and he can’t handle opening the wound that Cas’ left right now. 

“And your girl?” he asks; his voice tentative, and Dean can tell how nervous he is, how worried that they might have lost her. 

“See for yourself,” he turns back over his should, “You can come out, kiddo.”

Emma pops up and immediately races across the field, leaping into Benny’s waiting arms with absolutely zero compunction. Her arms are immediately around his neck, holding on for dear life and Benny hugs her back just as tight, his eyes closed tight, and a big grin on his face.

“Hey, sugar,” he tells her, “I missed you too.”

Dean tries to swallow down the jealousy that coils heavy and rancid in his chest.   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, Benny! I, for one, am happy to see a certain cuddly teddy-bear of a vamp back in my life, and, I suppose more importantly, back in Dean and Emma's lives. I hope you're happy too. Thank you all, so incredibly much, for reading, commenting, following, and supporting this story. I know I say this every time, but I really appreciate how incredible you all are. The next update will probably be in two weeks instead of the usual one, but, in the meantime, I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Thanks and much love!


	18. Shelter

Emma essentially becomes Benny’s shadow in the wake of their reunion. She immediately glues herself to his side when they pile into the truck, Benny wrapping a burly arm around her bony shoulders, both of them with easy smiles on their faces, Dean’s is, unfortunately, pathetically, much more forced. Emma rambles quickly on in French, which, for someone who has only spoken twice in the past week, and then only in halting, half hysterical English, the words are flowing pretty quickly and fluently. Dean’s heart twists, dark, uncomfortable, and at the levity at her tone, the ease of her speech; the fact that she would clearly rather speak to Benny, rather be with Benny, than him...he tries to remind himself that he’s being stupid, foolish, that this isn’t fucking all about him. He glances sideways when Benny laughs appreciatively and whatever it is that Emma is saying, and Dean can’t stifle the feeling that he is, once again, on the outside—the most uncomfortable and untenable type of third wheel.  
Benny and Emma provide the distraction when they stop at the local hospital—pretending to be a father and daughter—while Dean makes a run on the blood bank. Dean suggested the arrangement, it just made more sense, and he ignores Benny’s reproachful stare and Emma’s face entirely, but he looks over his shoulder at the picture they paint together and feeds a burning ache in his chest. 

Emma watches in fascination, with a tilted head and wide eyes, while Benny downs two blood bags rapidly, letting out a satisfied sigh, and wiping his mouth before he takes the third more slowly, sipping it like some kind of fucking demented Capri Sun pouch. Dean wrinkles his nose disgustedly, and gives Benny the side-eye against his will. Benny shrugs, and Dean can’t help but be uncomfortable with Emma’s captivation with human blood. He’s not sure if it’s some innate drive that she has, some kind of hunger deep in her bones, nor does he know how the fuck to deal with that theory if it proves true—he remembers, vaguely and uncomfortably, his own stint as a vampire, and he doesn’t want that for his kid, fucking at all—he isn’t sure if her focus is just because her awesome Uncle Benny, who is ten times a better father than Dean the demon spawn, is slurping away, and Emma subsequently thinks it’s fucking cool as hell. He sure as fuck hopes that's it. Sure beats the alternative can of worms.

Benny seems easy and light in the passenger seat, listening to Dean’s music without complaint, and dangling one arm out the open window, tilting his face toward the sun, wearing a pair of sunglasses he picked up at the gas stop and a wide smile. Their brief foray for supplies was their last outpost before a trek into the backwoods—the bayou is probably more accurate. Benny gives Dean directions, almost languidly, to a safe house out in the middle of fuck knows where. He shoots Jody a text, telling her where to meet them tomorrow—fucking hell, she’s gonna show up tomorrow; he’s not sure if he’s relieved or embarrassed at the prospect. It’s not an easy drive, more because of the rough terrain than any amount of distance. The truck’s a piece of shit, but he still winces the way that shocks react to the uneven ground. Worst of all, and he’s loathe to admit this to himself, he’s back to second fiddle in his kid’s life—the closeness is gone, paled in the face of the connection she has with Benny—Benny who can make her smile with ease; Benny with whom she speaks freely and easily; Benny who she’s unafraid to touch and Benny who clearly puts her at ease. Dean’s stomach turns and churns uneasily, ashamed at himself for begrudging the kid whatever comfort she can get in this fucking shitty world. He grips the wheel and grits his teeth and forces his mouth into a grin that looks like a grimace as they make their way to their final destination.

The safe house is a mansion of sorts, an old manor house in the middle of fucking nowhere. Dean would have expected it to be blown over by Katrina or any number of storms or floods since Benny died (the second time), hell, he half expected it to be plowed down or repossessed by the state or a historical society, but no, through the rusted iron gate, the house still stands, damp, a little derelict, definitely ominous, but all in one piece. It looks, in short, like the type of house you’d expect a vampire to own—he glances at Benny—a vampire who had a weird obsession with Gone with the Wind, and never really got over the Civil War, maybe. 

“Be it ever so humble,” Benny croons, mockingly, “ain’t no place like home.”

Dean climbs out of the driver’s seat and gets his blade ready, just in case, puts his warrior face on, not that he necessarily lets it drop, but with Emma around, there had been moments in which he had more relaxed, softer, and he hadn’t even realized it till his defenses had to go back up. Emma clambers up onto Benny’s shoulders. The vantage point puts her eye level well above Dean’s own, and she seems entirely pleased with herself and her new vantage point on the world. Didn’t get a fear of heights then, he catches himself thinking, wondering if she’d be afraid of planes; if she’ll ever get the chance to fly in one. If she’ll ever get to fly with Cas—he shakes his head before he can think too much about that, dispelling the thought before it can fully formulate. 

Benny takes the lead; they have to trek over marshy land and overgrown pathways. Dean follows behind, looking warily from side to side through narrowed eyes, expecting everything from a kelpie to a raging half-starved vamp. His whole body is tensed and ready, and Benny, perhaps sensing the strain, turns his head with an indolent smile.

“Don’t worry ‘bout them gators now, Dean,” he says, jovial and teasing, “Emma here will take care of them for us, won’t you, sugar?” He jostles her leg and Emma giggles, honest to god, fucking giggles, before clutching Benny’s head and turning with a remarkable degree of balance, and smiling at Dean—a wide, bright, fierce, devil may care smile, a smile that he recognizes as his own, except that she lets her fangs descend as if to say, “I got this,” it’s eerie and arresting and, shit, Dean’s not even sure what it does to his heart to see his daughter with an expression that mirrors his own, ready and willing to kill an alligator as a fucking romp. If they live to her adolescence, he realizes with dawning terror, she’s probably gonna give him an aneurism. That’s the only thought that he can conjure in relation to that expression on her face, and he kind of wants to keel over into the swampy water with the force of his desire to see her reach her adolescence, to make it to her teenage years, for real this time, and, not only that, but to be there for them—to have her give him a devil may grin that causes him to have a heart attack every time she leaves the house—he’s never wanted something so fucking much in his whole fucking life and he kind of want to throw up. 

The house is pretty classic—Haunted Mansion Style, all dusty sheets covering old furniture, cobwebs in the corners, and a sort of stale, lonely scent, the cloying odor of rot, mold, and absence in the air. Sam would appreciate this; or, more accurately, he would probably make fun of Dean for appreciating this. Dean smiles despite himself at the thought—it’s a small one, tempered by the fact that he has no fucking clue where the fuck Sammy is. Dean would, himself, whistle low in admiration, if he weren’t so busy watching Emma’s response. In the present, Emma fucking loves it. She launches herself out of Benny’s arms in the entrance way and tilts her head back to admire the high ceilings and shadowed stairway. This is the first time that she’s seen the inside of such a big place, a place that, however derelict, reflects money, wealth, stability. Shit. Everything Dean hasn’t and probably never will be able to give her.

Her eyes are wide and hungry, consuming every tiny detail. She subsequently attempts to dart up the stairs, presumably to explore, only to have both Dean and Benny jolt forward simultaneously to intercept her, because no way is this kid running wild in a house that has not been vetted—especially not an abandoned vampire nest in the middle of a fucking swamp that looks like a goddamn ghost’s ideal B&B. Nevermind that the munchkin’s super special spidey senses would probably detect any danger long before Dean or Benny could. Dean’s Mama Bear instinct trumps little Wonder Woman’s Amazon senses here—Benny seems to agree. He’s closer to the stairs, and he reaches Emma first, flips her upside down, and she seems amused before she catches herself and pouts. Benny chuckles, and Dean feels a clawing envy in his gut again. He swallows it down.

Once Benny completes a search of the grounds, and Dean, who has apparently taken up Bobby’s mantle of ‘paranoid bastard’ does a double check of the house, which is clear, they start to set up wards, and Emma races to help. This is her favorite task. She proudly inscribes sigils and lays salt with her face set and her brow furrowed in concentration. She has a lot of good reasons for wanting to do it herself and do it well. He knows how that feels, remembers salting windows and checking the wards on whatever motel room he and Sammy bunked in when they were little, when he was still scared, really scared, of what waited out there in the dark. Emma’s braver than he was at her age, and at a higher cost. 

When he offers to help, she protests, firmly, defiantly, “I can do it.”

And he raises his hands in surrender and deferral, “I know you can, Em,” because he gets her ingrained sense of independence, her need to control, to be in control of one fucking thing—their safety. So he rocks back on his heels and watches as she gets back to work. He observers her studiousness and concentration, and she lets him—looking over her shoulder and moving extra slowly on some complex angel sigils, as if giving him the opportunity to learn.

The adults are flagging by the early evening—with good reason—but Emma is still bright eyed and bushy tailed—ah, to be young. They reign in her energy to help tidy the place up; having never had to clean anything before (because sorting out a nest of debris in Purgatory doesn't really count), she seems intrigued by the procedure, turning it into a game of her own invention. Making the space habitable becomes the task of all three of them, but the living area is where they devote most of their attention. Cleaning this place up, if they decide to stay here and turn it into a base of operations or whatever; that process will be a war, not a battle. Rule of thumb when squatting, make sure you have a dry, clean place to sleep. 

They work to make the living room if not necessarily cozy, then, at the very least tolerable. Emma sneezes at the dust and squints balefully at the sheets, as if they’ve wronged her personally—but Dean splashes her with some water he’s using to clean the floor and she looks startled, and he thinks, ‘fuck, I’ve gone too far’ before she seems to realize that this, too, is a game, and wrings out a rag over Dean’s head. Then it’s on, and it’s maybe the most fun they’ve had together ever, outside of target practice—both of them laughing and smiling and sopping. Emma’s got a beautiful laugh; and his heart feels like it’s exploding in his chest because he, Dean Winchester, dead beat dad and fuck up extraordinaire, did something that made his kid happy. It’s a miracle; a fucking gift. It’s amazing. 

They let Emma frolic outside that night. Like a kid. Frolic like an actual kid, who chases fireflies and seems disappointed to not be able to wrestle an alligator as per Benny’s earlier proposition. 

Benny and Dean sit on the porch and watch her. Her eyes flash golden occasionally with no malice, perhaps only with joy. She grins saucily at Benny and shows her fangs. 

He laughs.

“She’s sharp, that girl of yours,” he tells Dean, while Emma preoccupies herself with hunting and imitating frogs (strictly catch and release).

Dean narrows his eyes.

Benny shakes his head, clearly Dean is missing something and he fucking hates it, but what else is new, “Getting’ a hand on her, ah, extras,” he drops his own fangs by way of explanation, “Growin up fast.”

Dean snorts, too fast, and he’s already missed so much…

“The little ones,” he continues, “they ain’t born with control over ‘em—just instinct, so if they sense a threat, they can defend themselves—”

Dean shrugs, “Makes sense.”

“Sure does,” Benny agrees, “learnin’ control; it’ll help her mingle better.”

Dean nods, tightly. He doesn’t want his kid to have to hide, at the same time, he wants her to be safe; at least pretend at normal. 

“She’ll probably lose the baby teeth before too long…” Benny continues.

“All right, all right,” Dean blusters, “don’t ship her off to college just yet.”

Benny chuckles, and Dean continues to watch as Emma catches and release the fireflies in the summer night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit later than usual, but they next installment should be posted in two weeks. I just wanted to thank you so very much for the outpouring of support and encouragement for this fic. I never expected such an amazing response for this story and it means the world to me.


	19. Our Lady of Badassery

Jody Mills is a saint; Dean’s pretty sure. The fact that the woman has not been officially canonized by the Catholic Church is basically a crime against humanity. Dean would canonize her himself: alas, he lacks a certain degree of, ah, dignity, reverence, and several million followers. Let’s face it: Dean pretty much loathes organized religion. He hesitates to go all Marx on the issue, cause Dean’s a red-blooded American boy at heart—but the whole ‘opiate of the masses thing’ sounds about right—God doesn’t give a fuck about people on the ground let alone all the shit they go through, his minions are, with few exceptions (one in particular) raging d-bags, and Dean’s tangoed with evil incarnate every day since he was four—god’s not home and the naïve morons who sit pretty in church are just looking for a cop out to explain the terrible shit that happens in their terrible lives. Sheep wanting to be pacified before they get led to the inevitable slaughter. 

Dean isn’t sure whether he’s disdainful or jealous of their blissful ignorance. Maybe both…Anyway, as far as he’s concerned, the church can suck it, and the man upstairs can suck it, but in the pantheon of gods that he worships—whiskey, pie, Baby, the Colt—Jody Mills occupies a special place. In the Official Church of Winchester—home of self-loathing and undeserving sinners: services offered in the dead of night on open highways, dingy bars, desecrated graves, and skuzzy motel rooms—Jody Mills deserves an altar; ritualistic sacrifices, slices of fresh baked cherry pie, and bottles of chilled beer offered up to Our Lady of Badassery and Undeserved Ass-Saving. Dean is basically willing to drop to his knees in profound gratitude and offer her his right arm in thanks. Jody Mills owes him shit—if anything he owes her a serious debt, but he called her, and she responded—out of the fucking goodness of her heart, which is kind of a miracle all on its own—jumped on a plane, drove across a state, all to help him—him and his kid, and he’s never felt such a weight of relief and this huge almost overwhelming sense of thankfulness…not in years. 

She pulls up the drive in a rented truck—shiny, silver, stock piled with supplies. Dean’s waiting for her on the porch, edgy, antsy, and, when she steps out, dressed in denim and plaid, hair shorter than the last time he saw her, eyes watchful and appraising, he leaps to his feet and crosses the lawn in moments. 

“Sherrif,” he greets, with what he hopes is a winning smile. 

She rolls her eyes, “Jody,” she corrects. Her hands are on her hips and she looks him up and down with a frown denting her brow. Dean tries to hold still, but he shifts under her gaze, fidgets almost, and wonders what she sees. 

“Jody,” he amends, and she smiles, tight and small, still with a slight frown, but she takes two steps forward and wraps him in a hug. 

He freezes and blinks, unsure what to do. He doesn’t remember the last time he was hugged like this. Jody’s arms are strong and reassuring, and it takes him a minute before he hugs back, fiercely, desperately, like a drowning man at sea, just trying to hold on to something, to anything that’ll keep him afloat. 

“It’s good to see you, Dean,” she says, and her tone is genuine and a little gruff. 

He takes a deep breath and buries his face in the slope of her neck for a moment. Jody isn’t much older than he is, but she’s always treated him as a comrade in arms or a son, sometimes both, and he wonders if this is would have been what it would have been like to be held by his mother as an adult. Safe home after a hunt, wrapped up in her arms, mutual reassurance that everything was okay and everyone was alive, all right, in one piece…There’s something in the way that Jody embraces him, warm and solid, that makes him want to let her take over, wants to leave his burdens at the door and be cared for by someone, be looked after, be safe. He knows he doesn’t deserve that, and, even if he did, he knows that he can’t afford such a luxury, but Jody’s grip is demanding, its affection unwavering, and Dean lets himself bask for a moment, just a moment, in the feeling of maternal affection, worry, relief, however fleeting and unmerited. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” he replies hoarsely, “Thanks for coming all this way…”

He clears his throat and pulls back and blinks away the burning in his eyes. Jody wipes at hers business like, and shrugs, “You would have done the same for me,” she says firmly, like she has every faith and confidence in Dean keeping his word, showing up when he’s needed, taking care of the few people he cares about—it’s misplaced faith, as far as he’s concerned, considering that his angel is stuck in Purgatory (possibly dead), that his brother is missing in action (also, possibly dead), that his kid is three years old, and, so far on Dean’s watch, has been shot, killed, and left to wander alone through hell for her entire life; Kevin is missing; Bobby, the closest thing Dean’s ever had to a father died on his watch, and Dean himself dropped off the radar for more than a year—incommunicado while the world was falling to pieces; and that’s not even to mention the trail of carnage that has followed Dean’s every move since he was a toddler. 

She shakes her head at him, “Don’t get all maudlin on me,” she grabs a duffle bag and tosses it to him, “Help me get this stuff inside, and we’ll see if we can’t sort this out.”

Dean does as he’s told, slinging the bag over his shoulder and grabbing two cardboard boxes from the truck bed, before following Jody, her hands also full, into the house. It’s almost a relief, after so long, to have someone else be in the driver’s seat (metaphorically), taking the wheel and giving him some direction. Having Jody’s decisiveness and pragmatism lifts a huge weight off his shoulders; he’s so fucking tired and so fucking afraid all the fucking time, Jody is alert and she’s sharp and she’s taking charge without even having to be asked...her offerings, he decides should be entire apple pies, bottles of Johnny Walker Blue, vintage records, front row seats at a Stones concert, and it still wouldn’t be enough. 

They make a beeline for the living area and drop their stuff; Jody gives the room a thorough once over. Her gaze isn’t pitying or judgmental (like he’d worried it would be; Emma doesn’t know to be judgy about squatting, she’s never experienced anything better, she’s actually experienced a hell of a lot worst, but Jody is in law enforcement, she probably has DYFS on speed dial, and…it’s disconcerting how much Dean actually fucking cares what Jody thinks of him—of his ability to provide for his kid, which is, admittedly abysmal at best). After a minute or two of assessment, figuring out the situation, she turns to face him, turns out she doesn’t give much of a fuck about sleeping on the floor (“We’ve got sleeping bags, Dean, and I’m not that old) or crashing in a former vampire nest (“Not the weirdest thing I’ve ever done…surprisingly,” she purses her lips before admitting with a grin, “I was a big fan of ‘Dark Shadows’ as a kid anyway…”), her biggest concern in terms of accommodations involves making the kitchen at least quasi functional (“Did you eat at all while you were gone, or do I not want to know the answer to that question?”). 

Jody looks at him somewhat sadly sometimes—the way that Bobby or Ellen used to, the way his dad never did—and he does his best to ignore the concern in her eyes. He doesn’t want her wasting time or energy on him; she’s already done enough—gone well above and beyond the call of duty. 

Benny had taken Emma out that morning, ostensibly to ‘hunt for gators,’ but really to keep her out from underfoot and give her something to bleed off the excess energy and nerves that she seemed to be catching from Dean. She was raring to go off on an adventure, Bunny in tow, but she did spare a regretful, almost wistful look over her shoulder as she traipsed off across the grass, as if she wished, or expected, Dean to join them on their venture. Dean had waved and then stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, his kid did think he was good for something at least—killing things, hunting—just what he’d want... 

By the time they get back, Dean and Jody have unloaded the contents in the truck. Jody brought enough provisions to feed and house a small army; as well as several dusty tomes that she admitted, somewhat guiltily, to having taken from Bobby’s library—(“He left me a spare key,” she confessed, falsely cheerful, “probably more so that I could help if you boys got in trouble, but,” she shrugged, “I figure we can use all the help we can get”)—there are two on Amazon lore, two on vampires, and every volume on Purgatory that she could safely get to Louisiana. Dean is impressed and bone deep grateful. It takes some serious skills, sheriff or not, to get esoteric, potentially illegal literature past the TSA and/or the USPS. 

They’ve cleaned all the surfaces in the kitchen and are attempting to get the stove up and running when they hear the front door open. They share a look and head out to meet the other members of Team Find Sammy (alternatively titled, Team Save Cas), but Emma beats them to it, sliding into the hallway and stopping right in front of them, peering up at Dean and Jody with wide eyes. 

Her leggings are muddy and torn at the knee, there are grass stains and streaks of filth across her shirt (and Dean is really glad that he insisted that she leave her Captain America t-shirt at home today, because its her favorite and those stains are gonna be a fucking bitch to get out), her hair is windswept, tangled and messy, but her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright and there’s no blood anywhere so Dean is going to count this outing a win.

There’s a question in her eyes as they dart between Dean and Jody, so Dean kneels down to her level, “Emma,” he says, “this is my friend, Sherriff Mills—Jody, she’s gonna stay with us for a little while,” he looks up at Jody whose expression he can’t quite read, “she’s gonna help us find Cas.”

Emma’s eyes take in Dean’s earnest expression before they retrain on Jody, her face is impassive, but she hasn’t Hulked out, so that’s a positive sign. 

Jody gets down on Emma’s level, too, slowly so as not to frighten her—and Dean remembers suddenly that Jody has not only worked with kids over the years—scared kids, runaways, victims of domestic violence, sexual abuse—that she had a son of her own once, and that she had to watch him die, twice. Dean knew that before—hell, he’d been there for the second—and he’d felt bad for her, responsible even, but, fuck, looking at Emma, not a foot away from him; he feels something wrench in his chest for Jody Mills because he cannot fucking imagine that kind of pain. 

“Hi Emma,” Jody says, looking the girl straight in the eyes and offering her hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Emma’s face scrunches up quizzically (kind of adorably), and she darts a look at Dean, who shrugs, “It’s okay, just to say hello.” 

She glares at him as if to say, “that’s not what you told me it was for,” which is another great notch on the ‘reasons not to trust this asshole masquerading as my parental unit’ chart she probably keeps somewhere. 

Emma returns her focus to Jody, considers her warily, inquisitively. Jody hasn’t moved an inch, she’s waiting for Emma to make a move on her own terms—like Benny had when they found her, like Cas, too—Dean holds his breath. Emma furrows her tiny brow, sniffs the air cautiously, chews her lower lip, and finally flashes her eyes at Jody, who doesn’t react beyond a raising of her eyebrows. 

She smiles at Emma’s concerted expression and Emma’s eyes ease back to brown.

“Gotta admit, I can’t do that,” she offers, hand still held out for Emma to take if and when she’s ready; she lowers her voice conspiratorially, “that’s a pretty cool trick.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible tick of Emma’s lips belies a smile. Dean might pass out from oxygen loss if he doesn’t inhale soon. 

Emma reaches out and puts her small palm in line with Jody’s. 

Jody smiles almost beatifically at Emma, she gives Dean a wink—he feels air rush back into his lungs in relief.

“C’mon, Emma,” Jody says, rising to her feet, “I brought some stuff for you; let’s got check it out.”

Emma glances at him curiously, and he grins, though it feels forced, “Go on,” he urges, “have fun.” 

His jaw clenches, and Emma turns away, smiles, looking up at Jody with something like wonder in her eyes; just like that, it feels like all the air has left the room again…Dean feels empty, winded, as he watches them walk away, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the update! As always, I just want to thank all of you for taking the time to read and encourage this story. It means so much to me, and it really keeps me going. I'm sorry this update was a bit later (and a bit longer) than usual; but we should be back on schedule with more regular updates now. Feedback is always appreciated (as ever). Thank you again!


	20. Lay Your Weary Head

Jody brought things for Emma—they’re pouring over a canvas bag stuffed with what Dean assumes is kid friendly stuff. He doesn’t look too hard. Emma’s face is screened by the fall of her hair, but Jody is smiling and intent as she pulls out a book and passes it to his kid. He’s pretty sure Emma is smiling too, and he’s not quite certain he’ll be able to handle the full force of it burning his retinas like the sun, afterimages that’re sure to leave his eyes sore and tearing. So he turns away, let’s them have their moment, shoves hands in his pockets, and walks out the front door as casually as possible.

Benny is sitting on the front steps. He turns when Dean comes outside, raising his blood bag in salute. 

“I’d offer you some, but I don’t think it’s your flavor,” he says, slurping through the IV line.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean sits next to him on the steps. Clouds are rolling in; he can see them in the distance, a dark edge of purple and grey bordering the blue sky. The wind is picking up too, there’ll be storms later. He hopes the roof on this place is weather proof. The first floor, at least, seems relatively free of water damage. It’s probably more likely the fucking mansion will get ripped from its moorings and the lot of them will get swept off to Oz. He’d really rather not deal with any more inter-dimensional travel right now. He’s had enough of that to last several lifetimes at this point—Purgatory was one thing, fucking Oz is another. Dean would gladly take monsters over witches, flying monkeys, and mandatory musical numbers any day. 

No place like home, he muses. He wishes it were that easy. Home isn’t a place Dean can go to; hasn’t been a location he could pinpoint on a map in a long fucking time. Home is Sammy, Cas, his baby—he doesn’t have any of them anymore—doesn’t even know if he can get them back. This place, grand and old as it is, is nothing more than a stopgap, a temporary location. It’s bigger than a motel room, but it’s got the same intransigent vibe. He thinks about Emma, sitting inside, she deserves better than a string of temporary shelters. Long as Dean doesn’t have a home, she doesn’t either. It isn’t fucking fair to her.

He sits with his elbows perched on his knees, frowning at the impending maelstrom. 

“Thinking some deep thoughts there, brother,” Benny prompts. He’s facing the horizon, too, giving Dean the chance to talk or not, as he chooses. That’s the great thing about Benny, really, he doesn’t force shit; he sits there like a goddamn mountain, patient and mellow, and non-judgmental—the exact fucking opposite of Sam—there’s a sick, aching feeling in his stomach at the thought. 

Dean shrugs, “Worried that Emma mighta left you out in the swamp for the gators.”

Benny grins, lets Dean avoid the issue; segue on to safer topics, “She gave me a run for my money, that’s for sure.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth ticks upward, and he looks down at his hands, warmth and pride blossoming beneath his breastbone. His kid has that effect a lot, and he’s still not really used to it—to the heady sensations that she brings into his life—fear, joy, pride, worry, concern, they’re multiplied a hundred fold every time he feels them in association with his daughter. He's not sure if he'll ever be completely used to it.

“Well, I mean, you’re pushing what, three hundred?” Dean jokes, “gotta take it easy with the toddlers there gramps.”

Benny rolls his eyes, “Shut up.”

He finishes his second blood bag before they head inside. Jody knows they have a vampire in their midst, but Benny feels that chugging a blood bag during the introductions might not be the best first impression that he could make, and Dean has to agree with that. Hell, Dean feels a little grossed out by it, and Benny is honestly one of the best friends he’s ever had...add that to the list of things he never expected to say or have, right alongside a part-monster baby and fully fledged angel—well, whatever the fuck Cas is to him.

When they do go inside, Emma is contemplating Jody with a curious mix of confusion and borderline awe. Jody is a bad ass, a warrior, a defender of the weak, protector of the small, she’s a strong woman, and she doesn’t take shit. He gets the rapture on Emma’s face. Hell, he, Sam, and Bobby have all had a gob smacked, “holy shit, Jody kicks ass,” face on more than once. But this is the first time (probably, there remains a long stretch of time that Dean can’t account for, and will eternally regret, in Emma’s life) that Emma has had any sort of lengthy interaction with a woman outside her tribe. Dean thinks the confusion pinching Emma’s tiny brow might be the fact that this woman is clearly a warrior, but definitely not an Amazon, and her tiny brain is putting those seemingly disparate pieces together, and coming to all sorts of new conclusions. 

When the door shuts behind them, Jody gets to her feet and Emma follows suit, turning to face Dean and Benny with wide eyes. 

“Hey, sugar,” Benny greets when Emma comes over to say hello, Bunny in tow. Benny ruffles her hair affectionately, and Emma grins up at him. 

“You must be Benny,” Jody says, striding forward, “Dean’s told me a lot about you.”

Benny considers Jody, glances appraisingly at Dean, who shrugs, and drawls, “Some of it good, I hope.”

“Most of it,” Jody gives a small smile, “He told me you helped save him and Emma. I owe you thanks for that,” her tone is extremely sincere, and Dean is surprised. 

“Truth is, I wouldn’t have made it out of that place without Dean here,” Benny admits.

“Still,” Jody persists, offering her hand, “Thank you.”

Benny looks at her offered hand before taking it in two of his, “It was an honor, Ms. Mills.”

Dean swears to god, when Benny doesn’t let go of Jody’s hand, her eyebrows hit her hairline and she actually blushes. 

“Jody,” she corrects, before clearing her throat and pulling away.

“Jody,” Benny agrees, with a smile and a lilt to his voice, laying on the Southern charm, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Emma watches the exchange with a miniature bitch face, and Dean would laugh if it weren’t for the fact that her expression is an exact mirror of his own. 

“Dean,” Jody interjects, “Why don’t you come with me?” She gives him a pointed look, “Get some dinner ready.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he allows himself to be led away, while Emma tugs on Benny’s hand and murmurs something in French with a scrunched up nose. 

Jody sets Dean peeling potatoes, while she chops onions: shepherds’ pie is on the menu. 

“Emma’s great,” she says, darting a look at him, while she heats the pan. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice rough and throat tight, “yeah, she is.”

Jody smiles to herself, “Benny’s not what I expected.”

“What’d you expect?”

Jody snorts, “More Stephanie Myer, less Nicolas Sparks.”

Dean laughs so hard his eyes tear up, and dinner, when it’s finished is fucking amazing. 

While Dean and Benny pore over some books about Purgatory, Jody helps Emma take a bath. She trims the tangled mats at the end of her hair, so that when Emma emerges from the bathroom, rosy cheeked and clean, her hair is slightly shorter, neater, and pulled back in a tidy pony tail. No one was hurt in the process, which was, honestly, something that Dean was concerned about—Benny had to remind him a few times that Emma was unlikely to stab Jody with a pair of scissors while they were in the next room. Still, Dean was twitchy until they came out: no signs of blood or a struggle, just a slightly damp Jody, and a normal looking little girl with a solemn face and a stuffed bunny.

The previous night they had all slept downstairs on the floor, Dean and Benny sprawled out at opposite ends of the room, Emma mid-distance between them. Tonight, they’ve cleaned out a few other rooms, and Jody takes Emma to one of them to let her sleep, while the grownups work. 

Before she goes, she slides a file across the table to him. He looks at her quizzically as he opens the manila envelope.

“I couldn’t find Sam,” she admits, frustration, even empathy, evident in the thinning of her mouth, “this is the best I could do.”

Phone records—all of Sam’s numbers, and some of Dean’s with the dates and locations of their use. The last time any of them were in service was about six months ago just outside of Houston. Dean’s jaw clenches. It’s not much, but he’s done a hell of a lot more with a hell of a lot less in his lifetime.

“Thanks, Jody,” he says, and he fucking means it.

“Sorry I couldn’t do more,” she says with a shrug, “We’ll find him, Dean.”

“Yeah…yeah, we will,” he agrees.

He sits at the table a moment more, before he picks up the file and his book and takes them to his ‘room.’ He’s got some blankets and pillows, a little battery operated lantern to read by, and that’s all he really needs. 

He can hear the thunder crashing; it sounds close at hand. Rain pounds on the roof. He’s propped his back against the wall, a pillow to act as a buffer, it’s a strange softness after months on the ground, leaning against caves, and rocks, and trees. He’s got the file with Sam’s phone records, and the tome about Purgatory lore in front of him, and he can feel his jaw clenching and unclenching with anxiety, he's getting a headache. Odds are Sam is alive, but if he is, why’d he ditch all the phones; why were these books still at Bobby’s? Sam should have had them with him, should have a least taken them somewhere for storage or safekeeping even if he wasn't actively using them. There are a few caches that he could have used but he didn’t. Dean considers that Sam maybe got all the intel he needed and then ditched the hard copies, but that doesn’t fit. Jody said that she hadn’t seen anyone in or around Bobby’s place and she’d checked on the regular, which means that Sam just left them there. If Sam had been in or around Sioux Falls, he would have checked in with Jody, unless he thought she was compromised, or that contacting her would put her in danger. Using Bobby’s as a base of operation would be risky; hell, the place was in shambles last time they were there; Rufus’ cabin was compromised, but why leave all the important shit behind—why not move it, take it with him? It doesn’t make sense.

“What’re you doin’, Sammy?” he mutters. 

He rubs his fingers against his eyes and groans a little. He’s tired, edgy. Jody’s here and that’s awesome, more than he deserves, but now they have to move on to phase two, and he’s nowhere closer to getting Cas out of Purgatory or Sam back from wherever the fuck he is. 

He hears Benny and Jody murmuring, hushed tones in the general direction of the kitchen, the steady beat of rain against the windows, thunder again, but he doesn’t hear Emma until she’s about two feet away.

“Jesus,” he jumps a little, but Emma only blinks at him. Besides Cas, Emma is the only one who ever really gets the drop on him, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and completely composed, while he flails like an idiot. It’s kind of improbable and a whole lot of impressive, really. She’s got Bunny in one arm, and her knife is probably tucked away somewhere just out of sight—they’re the only two comfort objects she has, and Dean won’t begrudge her them. Jody either hasn’t noticed the weapon, or she is being really fucking relaxed about a four year old with an obsidian dagger in her possession. 

“What’s up, kiddo?” he whispers.

She shrugs, looking down and away; her feet are bare, and she wiggles her toes against the floor. 

He frowns a bit, sets aside his book and the file, “You scared of the storm?”

They didn’t have storms in Purgatory. They had darkness and loneliness and blood and fear, but no thunder, no lightening. 

Emma meets his eyes and shakes her head adamantly, as if disappointed that he would think of her as anything less than totally fearless. He has to suppress a smile at that.

“C’mere,” he offers. For once, he doesn’t over think it. He doesn’t think at all actually; he just sees his kid, uneasy and shuffling in his room, and an instinct he didn’t even know he had kicks in, and suddenly he knows what to do. He scoots over and pats the empty space on his ‘bed’ next to him. 

Emma hesitates for a moment, her frame tense, but then she scrambles into Dean’s mess of blankets and curls up against his side. He wasn’t expecting that. At all. He’s too shocked to move at first; there’s this weird warmth spreading from Emma’s tiny arm against his rib cage, all through his chest. It’s like sinking into a tub of hot water, heavy, supported, and pleasantly warm. He puts his arm around her shoulders, carefully, slowly, and, when she doesn’t freak out in anyway, he tightens his hold. 

“So…not the storm, huh?” he queries.

She looks at Bunny instead of him, but she shakes her head no. 

“Hmmm…I like storms,” he confides, “kinda badass, you know?”

She shrugs.

“They remind me of Cas a little.”

She looks at him then, eyes wide in the darkness, but a steady, human brown.

“First time I really met, Cas,” he tells her, and he has no fucking clue where this is coming from, it just is, and he doesn’t know if he feels naked or embarrassed or both, “he walked straight into this barn, blew the doors open, and there was lightning all around, sparks flying everywhere...fucking show off.” 

He shakes his head fondly, squeezes Emma’s shoulder. She misses Cas, he knows, god does he know. When they were in Purgatory, she would sleep curled up against him any time she could, half burrowed under his trenchcoat; it was the only place she felt safe, protected, wanted, and Dean can’t exactly pretend that he doesn’t know that feeling.

He clears his throat, while Emma plays with Bunny’s ears, and watches his face closely. 

“Did you have fun today?”

She blinks slowly, confused by the change of subject, but nods. 

“Benny says that you almost used him as gator bait,” he tickles her side, and she squirms and wrinkles her nose, shaking her head. 

“No?” he confirms, eyebrows raised comically.

She shakes her head again, an exaggerated expression on her face to mimic his. 

He laughs at that, and Emma seems surprised by it, surprised that she caused it. He’s a shit father if his kid thinks she doesn’t make him happy—he knows from experience how much it sucks when your dad is pissed ninety percent of the time, and you think it’s your fucking fault. Emma holds Bunny to her chest, and her face crumples slightly when he frowns. 

“Sorry, Em,” he says, “I’m sorry, that’s not…it’s not about you; just got lost for a minute.”

She seems puzzled, but inclines her head slightly. The thunder echoes again, and she glances up at the ceiling before looking back at Dean.

He clears his throat, “You know, you and Bunny can stay here with me tonight…if you want.”

She chews on her lower lip, but it’s with human teeth; she’s thinking, she’s not scared, and that’s a good sign. Dean waits with his heart twisting in his chest, as Emma deliberates.

She finally shuffles a little bit closer and nods, quickly, almost nervously. 

“Yeah?” he asks, feeling bizarrely like he just won the lottery or some shit.

She nods again.

“Okay, okay, cool,” he smiles at her, full wattage; it makes his face hurt, unused and atrophied muscles straining with a forgotten task. She seems blown away by that, but she smiles back, shy and tentative. 

Together they go into the room that Emma had been staying in, and grab her blankets; on impulse, Dean snatches the bag of stuff that Jody brought for her, and he takes the lot back to his ‘room.’ Emma helps him to expand their blanket nest on the floor, making it cozier. Dean doesn’t really give two shits about himself, but his kid deserves the best he has to offer, and, if that means a couple extra blankets, then that’s what they’re gonna do. She picks a book from the bag, and she offers it to him almost timidly. Emma checks all the wards on the room, and Dean waits patiently. He's holding Oh the Places You'll Go, running his fingers against the cover. The last time he read Dr. Suess, Sam was maybe six or so; his little brother had always enjoyed Hop on Pop (ironic), and Dean had read it to him over and over and over again when they were cooped up in a motel room waiting for their dad to come back. When Emma seems sure that they're safe in here, she settles down, still hesitant, but curled, once again, against his side. 

“I was always a Cat in the Hat man, myself,” he confides, “but this was my second favorite.”

Dean reads out loud, and Emma takes charge of turning the pages pages, seems captivated by the pictures—all the bright colors and whimsical designs; it’s the complete opposite of the monochrome world she’s been trapped in for most of her life. 

Once they finish, Dean closes the book and Emma places it safely to the side, like it's a treasure she wants to take especially good care of. He pulls a blanket up over her shoulders, makes sure she's comfortable and warm. This is so different for them. She seems so small, so vulnerable, and it opens some wound in his chest that he didn't even know he was carrying. He pulls Emma against his chest, trying to convey that she's the most precious fucking thing that he's ever seen or had or imagined. He sings to her, and brushes her hair off of her face while she breaths over his heart. He feels overwhelmed suddenly by the affection, the fucking love, he feels for this tiny person, and at the same time, even when he's on the verge of imploding, he's bizarrely, strangely at peace, comfortable. He knows Emma is safe when she’s curled against his side; he can feel her heartbeat and her warmth, and it gives him a strange sense of certainty, deep inside; everything else is shit, he knows, but for this one second he’s got his kid, and she’s okay, and that’s what matters. He can’t be his dad; he can’t go to pieces because Cas is gone and Sam is in the wind, he’s gotta keep it together for this girl because she’s counting on him; because she needs to know that she makes him proud every time she so much as fucking blinks mostly. He’s gotta do that. 

She falls asleep on his chest somewhere in the middle of “Blackbird,” and Dean falls asleep shortly thereafter. It’s the most restful sleep either of them has had in years.

Sam calls seven hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I would like to apologize profusely for how late this installment is...my academic writing has more or less short circuited my brain for anything else lately; it's a said day when your creative energy is completely zapped. Anyway, here we are again. The next chapter is one I've been looking forward to since I began this story, so I hope you're equally excited and/or dreading Sam's entrance into this sordid tale. Also, Benny and Jody is a pairing that I love and it's mostly going to be happening in the background, so if you want more details on that, let me know.
> 
> Finally, as always, THANK YOU so much for supporting this story, encouraging my writing, taking the time to read this, and giving me feedback. It truly means the world to me. 
> 
> Much love till next time.


	21. Caught Between

Dean wakes with Emma still nestled against his side. She’s warm and soft, pliant in the way that small children only ever become in sleep—all that manic energy finally sizzled out; the whirling dervish come to rest. Sunlight creeps in through the window, coloring her tawny hair shades of copper and bronze, and Dean brushes it from her face gently so as not to wake her. Her head is so tiny beneath his hand. She’s a warrior, a fighter, a Winchester, but she’s a child, young, fragile. He doesn’t see Emma’s fragility the way he maybe should; she works so hard to hide it, she’s had to her whole life there was no room for vulnerability in Amazon boot camp, there was no space to be a child in Purgatory, no time to rest, no safe place to hide. He’s only ever really seen glimpses of Emma’s innocence and always second hand—when she would look at Cas like he hung the moon, or hum along with Benny’s singing—but here, now with him, she’s let her guard down. She’s asleep next to him, exposed, defenseless, a baby, his baby, and warmth spreads through his chest, radiating from his heart, just looking at her, curled up tight, one small fist balled into the front of his shirt, holding on to him, reaching for him, wanting him, trusting him. He can’t even…he swallows hard against the lump in his throat and settles his palm against her tiny shoulder blades, still too prominent, skinny, like bony wings. Her breathing is still faster than normal, but it’s slowed in sleep to a soothing rhythm, and Dean rubs small circles against her back, closing his eyes. 

Dean Winchester has lived a hard life; on earth, in Hell, in Purgatory; he’s seen a shit ton of fucked up crap that would drive most people fucking crazy and then some. He remembers far too much of it—the carnage, the brutality, each loss sharp as a knife, carved into his memory. He has a lot of fucked up memories, but he has a few good ones too, good ones that are made all the more precious cause of all the darkness they’re surrounded by. Dean didn’t get to choose to remember Hell, didn’t choose to remember the fire that stole his mother, or the Devil taking his brother; he didn’t choose to watch Cas walk into a reservoir, disappearing beneath the water. 

In this moment, Dean chooses to remember his kid, memorizing the feel of her tiny heart beating against his chest, and the smell of her hair, and the softness of her mouth and her chin, her little brow relaxed for once; peaceful, quiet. He learns the weight of her warm little body resting against his side. He absorbs all the little details and he tucks them away so that he’ll have them, no matter what, and then he closes his eyes and lets the moment linger just a little bit longer because he’s Dean Winchester and he knows good things don’t last. Not for him.

When Emma rouses, she seems confused by their proximity, but not panicked. She doesn’t jump back or recoil, nor does she pull a weapon or break out her fangs, she just rubs her eyes with her fists and blinks a few times, frowning bemusedly at him. He smiles at her because, one, that’s fucking adorable, and, two, this is some serious progress in their relationship. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he greets, and she ducks her head, tucking her chin to her chest, “You sleep okay?”

She nods.

“Why don’t you go see what Benny and Jody got cooking up? Something smells awesome.”

She grins, grabs Bunny, and scampers off, using him as a spring board. 

Dean sits up, stretches, throws on some clothes, checks his phone, and that’s when the world stops for a second because there’s a voicemail there…from Sam.

Dean springs into action mode immediately, calls his brother back with his heart in his throat (“Pick up, pick up, pick up, damn it, Sammy, pick up,” he mutters while the phone rings). Sam does, in fact, pick up, and the sound of his voice hits Dean like a punch to the gut: Sam’s okay, Sam’s alive, Sam’s somewhere; he’s gotta find Sam, gotta make sure he’s okay. Dean swallows that down as much as he can. Five code words and three security questions later, he’s relatively sure that it’s actually Sam and not a shifter or some kind of demon spawn, but, just in case, he keeps the conversation short, clipped, direct. They set up a rendezvous point. They arrange to meet there in six hours. He hangs up the phone and just stares at it, like it’s some kind of talisman, dangerous, strange, unfamiliar, and he turns it over and over in his hand with a sense of disconnection from himself. Like he’s fucking watching himself sit there like an idiot. He lays the cell down on his bed, right next to Emma’s pillow, and he walks into the kitchen in a daze—feet carrying him there without actual direction from him. Benny is making pancakes; Emma and Jody are sitting at the table. There’s coffee ready and waiting, and the three of them have smiles on their faces. 

Emma turns when he walks in; she’s shoveling a forkful of pancake into her face, and her expression is bright as the sun, and Dean wants to bask in it. 

Instead he blurts out, “Sam called,” and watches as his daughter’s face crumbles, closes off completely, her eyes shuttering shut and then opening, golden and glowing, her whole body shaking minutely. 

Things take a turn after that. It goes from relaxed semi-idyllic morning to nuclear wasteland in about two seconds. Emma stares at him with her eyes glowing and wide before she gets up from the table and races out of the kitchen, leaving a plate of syrupy pancakes and three dazed adults in her wake. Dean’s immediate impulse is to run after her but Benny shakes his head, “I got this brother.” 

He sends a guarded look at Jody, whose mouth is in a thin line, before turning off the pan and following after Emma. Jody pulls out a chair for Dean. He’s not sure if she looks sympathetic, hopeful, or pissed, but Dean sinks into the chair obediently and rubs at his eyes because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do. 

Jody sighs and pours him a cup of coffee, which Dean accepts gratefully. 

“Well, that probably could have gone better,” she says, and Dean laughs short and bitter. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters pressing his fingers hard into his eyes.

He drinks the coffee because he thinks that maybe it will give his brain the necessary ammunition to fight this battle, but it doesn’t actually do much beyond making him more radically aware of his position between rock and hard place. Sam’s his brother, his best friend, his fucking Sammy for Christ’s sake, but Emma is his daughter, and Sam killed her, and she’s fucking terrified of him, and now Dean is gonna go pick him up for a friendly little family reunion. He should probably stop for party hats and balloons on his way back…maybe some cupcakes. He’s a fucking mess. Dean loves his brother, for his whole fucking life, he’s loved his brother, but Emma, Emma is his kid, and he can’t even look at her with his whole fucking heart feeling like it’s trying to bust right through his ribs, but, fuck, how can he put them in proximity to one another? How can he fucking chose? He is so fucking screwed. There’s relief, a fucking hallelujah chorus and fireworks going off somewhere because Sam is fucking alive but it’s almost completely buried beneath his stifling, overwhelming, near fucking paralyzing concern for his daughter. He remembers her curled up against him last night, will that ever happen again? How can she trust him after he brings her fucking killer around to call? How can he fucking not go to Sam? What the fuck can he do?

Some of that gets translated into actual words that Jody actually listens to, much to Dean’s chagrin. Her face is veiled with sympathy, and she nods and shakes her head at the right places, and eventually she reaches out her hand and lays it against his wrist, grip tight. Dean holds back as if Jody is a lifeline. 

“Dean,” Jody says bracingly, she’s using her mom voice and it makes him feel like he’s drowning somehow; he can’t handle that on top of everything else, “I know that you and Sam have a complicated relationship, and I know that you’ve been worried sick about him, but, that little girl down there?” She ducks her head to catch his eye and squeezes his arm for emphasis, “She’s counting on you to be her dad. Sam’s a grown man; she’s a child, Dean.” Jody nods sharply and takes her coffee cup, moves to clean things up, leaving Dean sitting at the table with the strangest sensation that he’s walked headfirst into a wall—he feels like the worst fucking parent—person, of all time. 

Benny eventually convinces Emma to leave her room, but she’s completely freaked out and she doesn’t say a word to Jody or to Benny (it goes without saying that she won’t speak to Dean). She has no bed to hide beneath, no forest to disappear into, no out at all. She’s cornered and skittish—in full on fight or flight—and Dean hasn’t seen her like this since they first found her—thinking he was going to finish what Sam had started, snuff her straight out of existence—Cas has been a calming force, a balm for that skittishness, but Cas isn’t here; she’s just got Dean and Dean is a piss poor excuse for a father. 

Emma’s terrified expression, her bared teeth, her shaking limbs, is the complete opposite of the way she was last night. She had actually smiled when he read to her, actually came to him when she was scared, and now…she’s closed off, wild, standing in front of him and looking at them all like they’re the enemy, and it’s like someone’s shot him full of rock salt. They all hover around her in turn. Jody tries to get her to eat something, but Emma closes her mouth so tightly that Dean worries for her jaw and shakes her head, keeping her back to the wall at all times. She doesn’t want to be read to, which becomes apparent when Jody takes a stab at Where the Wild Things Are and Emma fucking tears it out of her hands and then into pieces (retrospectively, that probably had more to do with the story than the book as an object). Benny relieves Jody. He sings to her in his low, soothing voice, which seems to calm her slightly, but she’s terrified, more terrified than she’d ever been of vampires or wendigos or even Leviathan. His brave daughter is a shivering, twisting, tightly wound ball of anxiety, and he can’t help but think that it’s his fault. 

By the time Dean’s turn finally comes to look after her, he’s already spent three hours watching Emma in a constant state of worry. He approaches her, slowly. She’s huddled low to the ground, her eyes golden and glowing, the skin around them stained crimson, her fangs sharp, and her claws digging into her palms hard enough to break the skin. He feels sick to his stomach. 

He settles next to her, and her nostrils flare wide, her eyes bright with something that Dean’s sure he’s seen before but he can’t immediately place. She covers her face with her hands, and Dean, who has been floundering all day, trapped in his skin, restless and terrible, just launches into action.

“Hey, no, Emma, don’t do that,” he reaches out to her and she pulls back violently, hissing at him and then catching herself and trying to hide her face again; Dean’s heart breaks, “Hey, no, Emma, hey,” he grabs her by the arms and pulls her, struggling, twisting, trying to escape (and doing an impressive job, she’s fucking strong), into his lap, and into his arms and he holds her, rocks her, close to his chest, tight in the circle of his arms. He uses one hand to cradle her and the other to pull at her hands.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Emma,” he tells her—she should never have thought that she needed to—“you are awesome, all of you, okay? C’mon, let me see.” He keeps rocking her and making shushing noises, while she trembles, her breathing and heart rate sky high, like a rabbit caught in a snare. Eventually, he manages to pry her fingers away from her face; her eyes are still glowing, golden, the skin around them is still red, a band of darkened flesh that stretches from temple to temple, her fangs are still descended, and her claws. There are tracks of blood streaked across her creeks from the gashes on her palms, and Dean winces in sympathy. 

She looks pained and scared, so fucking scared, and Dean uses the corner of his shirt to wipe at her tears and the blood on her face, they’ll get to her hands once she settles. 

“Now, listen up, okay, cause this is real important,” he tucks his finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze, “You are fucking awesome, every fucking bit of you,” he rubs a thumb just below her eyes where the skin is red, war paint, so she knows what he means, “and you don’t have to hide from me, not anything, ever, okay? You’re—” he swallows hard and takes a deep breath cause it feels like something is stuck in his throat and he can’t quite get enough air into his lungs, his tongue heavy and clumsy, “you’re my kid, Emma, and I—I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you, okay? I swear to you I would die before I would let anyone hurt you.”

She blinks up at him and her chin wobbles dangerously.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he repeats, “You don’t ever have to be afraid of me; I swear, Em, I’m gonna take care of you…I’ve got you,” she buries his face against his chest, and her shoulders shake and he just keeps on rocking her, back and forth, back and forth, “I got you, Em, it’s okay; it’s gonna be okay.”

It takes him a moment to realize that Emma is speaking to him—or, rather, to his shirt, her words muffled by the fabric and the rumble of Dean’s voice, but when he realizes that she’s speaking to him, of all people, he pulls back, contorting a little bit in order to see her.

Her face is snotty and splotchy, her eyes are brown, but her fingers and teeth are still sharp. Her claws are digging into him, almost painfully, in her desperation, but Dean doesn’t mind, he doesn’t even wince.

“Don’t go,” she begs, her voice broken and raw and desperate; strained, “Don’t go; don’t go, don’t go, please, don’t go,” the words merge into sobs, strangled breaths as she gasps them out around her tears and Dean feels like his skin is on fire, his heart torn apart, it’s worse than the fucking rack. 

“Oh, Em,” he breathes. 

“Please, please, don’t go, don’t go away,” she pleads. 

Dean brushes the hair away from her face.

“Cas went ‘way, and Sam sent me away, and he could send you back to—the dark place—I don’t wanna go back; I don’t wanna—don’t go away—”

“Jesus, Emma,” he pulls her against his chest.

“—don’t leave me,” she cries, “don’t go away, don’t go away—I want Cas—”

“It’s okay, shh, I know, baby, I know,” fucking shit, “It’s okay, Emma,” it’s not, “I’m gonna take care of you,” I can’t even take care of my fucking self, “It’s all right, shhhh, I’m not gonna leave you; I’m not gonna leave you.”

He sits with her like that for over an hour, just holding her in his arms and wiping her tears and rubbing soothing circles on her back and the back of her hand where its clenched in the front of his shirt. When Emma finally relaxes, she refuses to let go of him, and, as terrible as it fucking is, a tiny part of him is incredibly fucking happy that his kid wants him, doesn’t want to let go of him—it’s sick and it’s wrong because she’s scared out of her wits and it’s a situation that he fucking created, but his kid wants him and it makes a part of him, the part not riddled with guilt and remorse and loss, sing. 

In the end, Jody is the one who goes to vet and fetch Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I may have lied...the *next* chapter is the one in which Sam appears and shit gets intense (I mean, I hope things were also intense for you here). I was going to incorporate the Sam part here but the chapter ended up being way longer than anticipated. Anyway, I hope that you all enjoyed this installment. Thank you again so much for all of your encouragement and patience. You are all amazing!


	22. Uncle Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue between Sam and Dean in this chapter is directly lifted from 8.01; I am not responsible for that dialogue (thank godstiel), I'm only responsible for its dreadful bastardization.

There’s a deafening silence in the wake of Dean’s pronouncement. It reverberates; thousands of tiny echoes ricocheting between the four of them. Jody smiles at him knowingly, some small glowing warmth in her eyes that might be pride or approval. Benny leans back in his chair, seemingly more at ease than before, most of his face shadowed by his cap, but a grin visibly tugging at the corners of his mouth. And Emma, well, Emma stares up at Dean like she’s never seen him before, and Dean, for his part, can barely stand the scrutiny, can hardly look at her. There is a resonance in his bones, deep, and almost painful—that strange sensation after a strong electric shock, where everything inside is still vibrating, charged, crackling.

His decision had rolled off of his tongue seemingly unbidden. The words falling off of his lips before he knew he was going to say them. It’s the strangest damn thing, but it’s like he can see them, like the words occupy physical space between he and Emma, congealing like taffy and keeping them both frozen in place. Jody packs a backpack and leaves after a quick and hushed conversation with Benny, who lingers on the porch in her wake, leaving Dean and Emma alone in the eye of the storm. The winds have calmed, gone straight out of Dean’s sails, and, when Jody closes the door behind her, there’s a palpable, almost painful stillness; the loudest fucking silence of Dean’s life, and Emma keeps right on staring up at him.

Dean can’t keep avoiding her eyes, he just…can’t…

Emma’s cheeks are blotchy from crying. Her eyes aren’t glowing gold with fear or anger; they’re glistening instead, bloodshot and impossibly tired. Her face is covered in blood and snot and tears, some of which has undoubtedly smeared onto Dean’s shirt, although, at the moment, he honestly couldn’t care less. He swallows hard against the burning in his chest—static running along his ribs, prickly, uncomfortable, it feels a lot like shame. His kid looks like a goddamn death row inmate given a last minute reprieve, right before they flip the switch. He knows that face, fuck, he’s made that face, that exact fucking face, down to the quirk in her eye brows and the parting of her lips, and the way her eyes have flown wide, like she can’t believe what’s she’s seeing. He tries really hard not to dwell on the fact that Cas was the cause of that face almost every time he made it. Instead, and almost more painfully (if that’s possible), he focuses on the fact that he doesn’t deserve his daughter to look at him like he’s her fucking savior.

See, the thing is: the way she’s looking at him right now, is the exact opposite of the way that she did the last time he saw her on earth, the first and only time in her short life that she met Sam.

Dean doesn’t like to think about that day—for the past few years, he has actively tried to forget about it. It may be that, more than anything else, which makes him the shittiest fucking parent to ever walk the earth. Not only did he fucking supervise the death of his child; he promptly tried to forget that she ever existed. There’s a reason that Dean didn’t recognize Emma in Purgatory, a reason that goes well beyond the fact that she looked a whole lot younger and was covered in four years’ accumulated grime. That reason, plain and simple, is that he watched his kid die in front of him, he buried her body in a shallow unmarked grave on the side of a fucking highway; he spared that small mound of upturned earth exactly one glance in the rearview mirror as he and Sam drove away, and he promptly tried to pretend that Emma had never happened.

It’s hard not to think about that day right now, with Emma sitting on his lap, gaping up at him with something bordering on hope in her eyes. He can’t see that without remember the look on her face when a bullet caught her in the chest. Point blank range, straight to the heart. He can see it, clear as day: Emma falling to the floor, her life’s blood soaking the carpet, the color bleeding from her face; he can hear her last breaths, strangled and pained, recall in excruciating detail the way that her eyes stared up at him then, wide and scared, lost, utterly and completely alone…before they wend blank and empty (and he can see that, too, in high-def surround sound). Four years of trying his damndest to forget, but he can still picture it, crystal clear, and he can conjure, plain as day, the way it felt to see her like that, a sharp piercing pain in his chest, like something had been torn out, ragged and struggling, there and gone before he could even name it. His jaw clenches, rigid, and his hand on Emma’s small shoulder tightens. The two images of his daughter overlap for a moment—one dead, one living, an impossible superimposition—and Dean is caught in between the two, struggling to breathe.

He would dream about it—her—sometimes—this half-formed imaged of his lost girl, fleeting and flickering through a haze of alcohol, exhaustion, stress, and loss. Finding Emma—Cas finding Emma—well, Dean doesn’t set much in store with miracles, not really, but if anyone could pull one off in that fucking shithole, it would be Cas, and he did because suddenly this kid, this little person, this fucking…his kid… the one that he didn’t even let himself remember because he couldn’t—well, suddenly, she was there, right there, in front of him, and every time he looked at her it was a fucking war in his heart and his head; guilt and pride and loss and fear and this overwhelming, almost all encompassing, affection that threatened to swallow him whole.

Emma is a smart kid, canny, suspicious, logical, and fierce—and she’s had him pegged from the first. Fool her once, maybe, into thinking that Dean might help her, but never fool her twice. She’s been suspicious as fuck since she laid eyes on him, and with good fucking reason, however much it hurts. Dean can get one over on heaven and hell and everyone and everything in between, but not her. She tends to expect the worst of him, and maybe that’s why.... Regardless, the way that she’s staring at him right now, well, she has not looked this completely shocked by Dean’s behavior since he saved her from being Leviathan chow (an event, which, quite frankly, still makes Dean feel like he’s gonna throw up every time he thinks about it). At that particularly gruesome juncture, she’d been stunned into almost stupefaction by the idea that Dean would want her alive, and right now, she’s got the exact same air of bewilderment—as if Dean choosing her, choosing to save her, protect her, look out for her, is an impossibility. It hurts, like a punch to the gut, but Dean figures he deserves it.

Emma hasn’t moved since Jody left, and neither has Dean, beyond holding on to her more tightly. He’s surprised she hasn’t gone for his jugular, because he’s relatively certain that she is running through the list of reasons that Dean would choose her over his brother, and surely imposter must be high on that list. It would be for Dean. Fuck. He suddenly and painfully wants to kick his own ass for even considering going to get Sam while Emma was so scared, so fucking out of her mind terrified. What the fuck kind of person would do that? What the fuck kind of dick would leave their fucking kid while they were in the midst of a goddamn breakdown to go and fucking pick up their fucking killer? Jesus fuck.

Emma is giving him too much credit (given that she seems to have concluded that he’s not a shifter, and is, therefore, however incongruously, here of his own free will). If it weren’t for Jody’s prompting, he would have left her. What’s worse? If it weren’t for Jody and Benny, he would have either dragged her along (kicking and screaming, catatonic with fear, whatever) to meet her murderer on his terms, or he would have ditched her, huddled up in some sleazy motel, alone with her fears, memories, and nightmares, all the more terrible for their basis in reality. 

Dean can’t breath. There’s not enough air. He can’t look at her anymore; he can’t see those eyes, wet and warm, too old for her face and too fucking young at the same time, wide with disbelief, with tentative trust, with something like awe that he would give her even a spoonful of affection. Son of bitch. He inhales deeply through is nose, counts to ten, tries to ignore the tightness in his chest, the pounding in his ears, the way that his skin feels too tight, prickly all over.

He can hear his father, clear as a bell, ringing in his head, and endless repetitious litany: “Lock the door,” “Shoot first, ask questions later,” “Take care of Sammy,” “Don’t leave the room,” “I left you a hundred, what do you mean it didn’t cover you for the week,? “I should be home in a month, maybe more, keep your heads down, and your noses clean,” “What did you do?!” “I’m proud of you.” And his own voice at the last, “You’re not my dad.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. A million times his dad walked away into the night, leaving him with a knot in his stomach the size of Texas, a shotgun in his hands (fuck, hands no bigger than Emma’s are now that first time), a weight of responsibility on his shoulders that no kid should have, and he had almost…he had almost…

It takes an extreme force of will to make himself to face his daughter. Emma with her tiny fingers—miniature versions of his own, down to shape of her nails and the crease of her knuckles—holding fast to his arm, strengthening her grip slightly, as if she can sense his mood, which she probably can, and is suddenly afraid that he might change his mind after all, might up and bolt, leaving her alone. He clears his throat.

His voice is huskier than he would like, strained, “What d’you say we get you cleaned up, huh?”

He wipes her cheek gently with his palm. Her skin is moist and sticky, warm, beneath his calloused fingers. He brushes his thumb tenderly against the skin just beneath her eyes, where human pink bleeds into amazon crimson, and her eyelashes flutter, damp and dark, as if she’s suddenly conscious of her difference, afraid of what Dean might see when he looks at her. It’s another agonizing jolt to his heart—what has he done to this kid?

“You’re okay, Em,” he tells her, voice lowered to almost a whisper, like they’re sharing a secret, “I’ve got you, kid, you’re okay.”

She snuffles, and her eyes open, wet with fresh tears, the flecks of green in her irises are markedly more pronounced than usual. He smiles at her, weakly, but he hopes reassuringly. She looks overwhelmed, scared, as if no one in the world has ever touched her with kindness—and that’s not that far off the mark: Cas was always so fucking careful with her, and Benny is like a goddamn cuddly teddy bear when it comes to this kid, but beyond that? Fuck, Dean’s touched Emma in Amazon mode maybe twice—and least so this part of her, the part that isn’t ‘normal’, the part that got her killed, the part that Dean used to recoil from. He swallows against the knot in his throat, the burning in his cheeks.

He needs to fix this. He has to fucking fix this. He brushes his thumb against her cheek again, against her skin, gently, but firmly, and he keeps his eyes on hers the whole while. She looks…well, he’s not really sure, he’s never seen that expression on her face before, but whatever it is, it makes him want to pull her to his chest as tightly as he can and not let go of her. It makes him want to put himself between her and anything that would dare to hurt her, up to and including himself.

He’s a shit father, he knows that, and Emma sure as shit knows that, but she clings to him anyway when he pulls her into a hug. Somehow that makes the whole thing worse, the way she leans into him, as if she might trust him. Even he knows that she shouldn’t, but it doesn’t stop him from wrapping her, warm and safe for this moment, in the circle of his arms. She presses herself firmly into his chest, mashing her face right up against his heart, and he’s visited by the strangest sensation that that’s exactly where she belongs. He rubs circles against her back, like he used to do for Sammy when he had nightmares as a baby, and he hushes her, softly. When they’ve both calmed a bit, Emma pulls back, rubbing at her eyes, and he immediately feels the loss of her proximity. 

He carries her to the bathroom, and she keeps one hand fisted in the front of his shirt. He sets her on the counter and gently wipes her face clean with a wet washcloth. He dabs antiseptic onto the gouges in her palms, and she barely winces. She’s brave, his kid, stoic—and he’s not sure whether she reminds him of Cas or Sam or himself in that moment—but he carefully blows on her injuries, like his mom did for him once, half forgotten, long ago, when he’d fallen and scraped his knee. He places a very quick kiss against each palm, knowing that he’s pressing his luck, and unsure what the fuck made him think he had the right.

He clears his throat, “Helps ‘em feel better.”

She only blinks, and carefully folds her fingers closed over her palms. To hide her injuries, to keep Dean from trying that shit again, or to hold onto the kisses to remember them, keep them, he doesn’t know. He’s not quite foolish enough to believe it’s the last. Nevertheless, when they reemerge to find Benny sitting at the table with a fresh pot of coffee and PB&J sandwiches, Emma climbs into Dean’s lap, her back pressed firmly plastered against his chest. She stays glued to his side for the next few hours, and he’s not seen her so clingy since she realized that Cas might leave. She’s afraid I’m gonna ditch her, he realizes, after their second go round with The Cat in the Hat. She’s fucking terrified, even if she’s playing it cool, the only visible sign of her insecurity is her unwillingness to let Dean out of her sight, but she’s scared beyond reason that he’s going to ditch her, change his mind, rush off into the night for Sam, leaving her behind, never coming back. It’s a fear, he realizes with another agonizing drop of his stomach, with which he is all too familiar.

Benny supervises story time with something like amusement and approval, but a certain languorous energy that lets Dean know that he’s readying himself for a fight. Even Dr. Seuss can’t fully dispel the tension of waiting. They play poker, Dean teaching Emma (who is a natural, by the way) and grinning at Benny when they kick his ass. He shows Emma how to high five—and the small smile piercing an otherwise wan face makes this the best poker victory of his life—so does the fact that he realizes that somehow, bizarrely, he has collected one of Emma’s firsts. He’d thought he’d missed them all. He wishes Cas were here, sharply, painfully; his absence weighs like a phantom limb, aching and untouchable. Dean can hear him clearly for a moment, shaking his head at Dean’s ridiculousness, “All of life is made of firsts, Dean. Each experience is a first, unique in its way…of course, Emma would be bound to share one with you, if not more. Indeed this is not the first ‘first’ that she has shared with you,” a small tentative smile, a hand against his shoulder, certain, warm, comforting, home, “nor will it likely be the last.” Dean shakes away the image, the fleeting hope.

He’s not sure if it’s a thought, a wish, or a quick prayer. He’s not sure if it counts if his hands aren’t folded and his eyes aren’t cast heavenward. He’s not sure if angels can hear prayers from earth in purgatory, but he sends the feeling to Cas, as hard as he can, “I wish you were here for this, I miss you; I need you. We both do.” Cas would handle this situation so much better than Dean. There are some thing in this world that Dean can do a lot better than Cas, small talk, for instance, but brokering peace between Sam and Emma, between Benny and Sam, between Dean and Sam in the aftermath…Cas has a certain knack for playing peace keeper between them, always has, and now is no exception. Cas had been a general, not a diplomat. Heaven knows (ha) that Cas is not the most personable guy, nor does he have time for bullshit, but there is something about the smitey face, and the commanding presence, and timeless wisdom, and, if all else fails, the look of wide eyed understanding, that makes Cas the best at setting things to rights between Sam and Dean.

Dean shakes his head; Cas isn’t here, and frankly, even if Cas is still alive (and Dean hopes to an absent god that he is), he’s got bigger problems to worry about than Dean whining about his inability to keep his family in one piece. Dean’s on his own for this. He rests his chin on Emma’s head while she contemplates their cards, and, surprisingly, she lets him. Maybe, he’s not totally alone.

As time passes, they all get edgier. Benny visibly relaxes, but Dean knows that’s how he readies himself for a fight, maybe it’s a vampire thing, luring people in with a false sense of security before striking hard and fast, maybe it’s just Benny, either way, he’s prepared for whatever may come. Emma, for her part, presses herself closer to Dean, eyes wary, alert; her whole body tense. She keeps flexing her fingers as if there is an ache or an itch in her joints, and Dean wonders if she’s trying to keep her superpowers under control—if she thinks she’ll be safer that way, able to fly beneath Sam’s radar, or if she’s just saving them for when they’re needed. Dean for his part, keeps one hand on Emma at all times, right now, it’s splayed against her stomach, holding her against his chest even as she sits on his lap. He can feel the quickness of her breathing, and her heartbeat (always faster than what’s strictly ‘normal’) has notably picked up the tempo. Dean has one ear and one eye out, waiting for Sam’s arrival. He can’t bounce his leg without dislodging his kid, so he’s stuck trying to sit still, while feeling like he’s got fire ants swarming through his veins.

Of course, Benny and Emma are aware of Sam long before Dean is—supernatural hearing and all that jazz. To his credit, it doesn’t take more than ten seconds for him to realize what Emma’s totally rigid posture, and Benny’s slow unwinding mean. There’re only so many things in the cosmos that can make his kid so rapidly resemble the bastard love child of a statue and a pissed off cat—he’s reasonably certain that Sam is at the top of that list.

“Well then,” Benny says, words uncurling slowly, like honey, molasses (all the better to catch wayward victims), as he unfolds himself from his seat, “Miss. Emma, I reckon you and me ought to head on back to more neutral territory, let your daddy take care of some family business.”

He opens his big arms wide, beckoning Emma to join him. Dean looks down at her, where his hand has unconsciously curled more firmly around her middle, loath to let her go, to relinquish his hold on her. She glances up at him, turning slightly and tilting her head, so that she can better see him; her small fingers pressed against his hand, a strong, warm pressure, which belies both strength and nerves.

“Hey,” he says, “it’s gonna be okay. I promised, remember?” He hopes life won’t make a liar of him; it wouldn’t exactly be the first time. 

A muscle in her jaw jumps, twitches, she swallows, and nods perfunctorily.

“You got nothin’ to worry about, darling’,” Benny drawls with a strangely predatory grin that ominously suggests what will happen to anyone who gives Emma something to worry about, up to and including Dean if that’s the way the dice falls.

“See?” Dean says, holding her tight, a half-hug against his chest, “You’re gonna be fine…go with Benny, huh? I’ll come get you when it’s…safe.” Weird, thinking of Sam (normal Sam, baby brother Sam, heart bigger than the continental US, prone to Oprah grade bouts of emotional conversation, soul intact Sam) as a threat.

Emma squints up at him, chews her lip with sharp little fangs, and squeezes his wrist before hopping down and taking Benny’s proffered hand.

“Good luck, brother,” Benny offers sincerely.

Dean, feeling the absence of Emma’s warmth and the strange and unsettling weight of dread curling in its place, can only rub a weary hand across his face and nod, “Thanks.” He’ll need it.

Emma looks back at him exactly once as she follows Benny to the darker, quieter corners of the house; her expression is inscrutable and pensive.

Dean stands, he stretches, he paces. By the time he hears the familiar purring of Baby’s engine (music to his ears really) pull up the drive, he’s as tightly strung as a bow. Anxiety, excitement, joy, fear, they swirl around his stomach in a dizzying mix that makes him feel a bit like he might hurl.

Then the door opens and, fuck, it’s Sam, and everything else kind of goes out the window. There’s this rush of pure relief, the type that makes your knees feel like rubber, and your heart too big for your chest because, shit, it’s his brother, his overgrown baby brother. Alive. Hale and healthy. Jesus. He looks good, really fucking good: tall as a fucking house, strong, filled out. There are no dark circles beneath his eyes, no stagger to his step. He’s tan from time in the sun, and his hair is more in need of a trim than ever (fucking hippie; he’s supposed to be the straight laced one), golden brown the way that only happens after a long bright, summer. Sam smiles and it’s not strained in the slightest, through there’s a strange tightness in his eyes, that Dean will worry about later. He looks well rested; the type of well rested that normal people get—eight to ten hours, doctor recommended—and it’s such a huge fucking one eighty from the last time that Dean saw him—just barely hallucination free, still tired, worried, pained. Fuck, it’s awesome to see him.

That doesn’t stop Dean from insisting on testing both he and Jody—because one: things that seem too good to be true usually are, and, two: he’s not willing to take a risk, not with Emma in the picture—Sam protests. 

“Is that really necessary? I haven’t seen you in—” he’s cut off and left sputtering when Dean throws holy water in his face. Once Sam’s done, bone fide, one hundred percent, hunter verified Sammy, which is just, well, it’s fucking amazing is what it is, he refuses to return the favor.

He’s clearly bemused, wiping at the combination of borax and holy water dripping off of his goddamn mane at this point (seriously, the kid needs a haircut), “God, Dean, I know it’s you…okay?”

And, though Dean should probably find that endearing or some shit, he’s actually annoyed—since when did Sam let his guard down like this? Didn’t he know that you couldn’t just casually trust the things you saw? That you couldn’t fucking relax for a damn second? He fucking should.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean grumbles because he’s had a long fucking day, his nerves are stretched to the breaking point, and, as glad as he is to see his brother, he’s less than happy to see that Sam has apparently ditched his self-preservation instincts (which just makes Dean worry about what the hell he’s been up to for the past year because Sammy’s self-preservation instincts are only a notch or two above Dean’s at most), and, on top of that, now Dean has to slice his own damn arm, which is just fucking awesome, as always.

Jody didn’t protest in the slightest when Dean poured borax on her skin, or made a clean cut across her forearm, but she rolls her eyes at their fraternal standoff, and steps in before Dean can apply the silver knife to his skin. She takes the blade, and, with absolutely zero hesitation, draws a clean line across Dean’s forearm.

“There,” she sighs, a little fed up, “I draw the line at self-mutilation,” she responds to Dean’s raised brows.

“So, uh,” Sam clears his throat, “should we hug, or—.”

Dean laughs, he can’t help it, “C’mere,” he says, and then, suddenly, he’s got his arms full of Sammy, whole and healthy and miraculously alive, and he holds on, as tight as he can, because there had been a few moments when he had honestly thought that he wouldn’t get to do this ever again. They’re not big huggers; they’re not, but, just, being able to hold on to Sam, know he’s all right and here, really actually honest to god, here, there’s something fundamental, instinctual about it. It soothes something deep in the very core of Dean’s psyche to have the physical confirmation of Sam’s safety.

Sam is the first to move, he clears his throat, pulls back, and Jody smiles at them both, “I’ll leave you boys to it then; I know you have some catching up to do.” She squeezes Dean’s shoulder as she walks by, glances back at Sam, “Good luck.” She sounds like she means it, and Dean has yet another reason to love Jody Mills with his whole fucking heart.

Then it’s Sam and Dean and a missing year between them. Sam brushes his hair off of his face, smiling, blinking, almost as if he’s unsure where to look; which is weird, cause Dean can’t seem to get enough of staring at Sam.

Sam’s eyes are wide, disbelieving. “Dude, you’re freaking alive. I mean, what the hell?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, cause he can’t really believe it either.

“So…purgatory.”

Dean cocks his head to the side, and purses his lips, like he’s tasted something bitter, “Purgatory.”

“What was it like? I mean, what the hell happened?”

“Well, apparently standing too close to exploding Dick is a one way ticket to monster heaven.”

“Jesus,” Sam shakes his head, “and, that’s where you were? For the whole year?”

Dean can feel the tension settle into his shoulders, can, suddenly, clearly, smell the dank rotting carnage, anew, as if he were still there, knee deep, covered in blood, breathing heavy, “Yeah, time flies when you're running for your life.”

“Jeeze,” Sam sighs wonderingly, genuinely surprised, “How’d you get out?”

Dean’s a little hazy on the specifics—metaphysics, spiritual bullshit, arcane rituals, and god having a sick fucking sense of humor as always—there isn’t really a fucking straight answer to Sam’s question. Getting out involved running into Benny, and Dean deciding not to kill him, the process was long and hard, and twisted; it meant cutting and clawing his way through the trenches for months at a time, to meant hunting for Cas, it was finding Emma, it was Leviathan on their trail, and too many close calls, and almost not making it. 

Dean shakes those tangled thoughts away, like cobwebs, and improvises; the basics will have to do, “Turns out whoever built that box didn’t want me there anymore than I did.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m here, okay,” Dean tries for reassuring, he tries for end of story, bottom line, and apparently misses the mark entirely, cause Sam, ever curious, keeps on probing.

“And, Cas? He was there too?”

Dean should have seen that one coming a mile away; he didn’t. It’s a slap to the face. Dean’s there again, that last second, trying to hold on, and Cas pushing Emma into his arms, shoving Dean away, taking on twenty Leviathan alone, disappearing, a blinding flash of light…

“Yeah,” Dean swallows hard, schools his expression into a mask of calm, bites his lip, “Yeah, Cas was there, too.”

“And,” Sam’s tone is beseeching, bright, inquisitive, “what happened?”

Dean shifts on his feet, turns, tries to dispel the too tight feeling in his chest, and still he can’t meet Sam’s eyes when he says, “Cas, he, ah, Cas didn’t make it.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Sam’s words are laced with concern, and Dean wants, suddenly, more than anything, for him to shut the fuck up.

Instead, he bites the bullet, facing away from Sam, gazing into the darkened corners of the house, where Emma and Benny are hiding, “Things got pretty hairy towards the end, and he, ah,” he pauses for a moment, the weight of Cas’ shove, the portal pulling Dean away, swallowing him up, not knowing if he’d lost just Cas or Emma too, the whole world spinning, before coming to a startling, painful stop, “he made sure I got out, but he, he didn’t make it with me.”

“Is he—dead?”

“I don’t know,” Dean turns back to Sam, whose eyes are wide with worry, genuine shock. Dean clenches his jaw and swallows against a painful lump in his throat, “I don’t know, Sammy, it’s not exactly a picnic down there—” he can smell it again, Purgatory, putrid, fetid, the aroma of death, clogging his nostrils, “—it’s bloody, messy…thirty-one flavors of bottom dwelling nasties. Hell, most days felt like 360 degree combat…and Cas is Puragatory’s most wanted…” He trails off, because, as much as he hopes to fuck that Cas is okay, as much as he tells himself and Emma that Cas is gonna make it, is made of stronger stuff than any of them, he can’t quite dispel the fear that comes along with the thought of Cas, alone in that place, without Dean at his back.

Sam puts a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean finds himself in the strange position of wanting to sink into his brother’s compassion, and wanting to viciously shrug him off because, no matter how much sympathy Sam is showing him, no matter how worried he might be for Cas, he can’t know what it was like, can’t know what it is that Cas is facing alone.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he sounds like he means it.

“Yeah, well,” Dean clears his throat, “we’ve been doing our damndest to figure out a way to crack open the locked box and get him out.”

“Of course, yeah, Dean, of course, we’ll find a way to get him out.”

“Yeah, yeah, we will.”

Dean clears his throat because there’s only so much a man can take before he snaps, and Dean’s nearing the threshold.

He tries a smile, “You, though, man, I mean…you know that half your numbers are out of service? Felt like I was leaving messages in the wind.”

Something shifts in Sam’s face then, something strange that Dean does not like at all, it sends a frisson along his shoulders, and if he had hackles they’d rise at the subtle change in mood.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “I, uh, I didn’t get the messages.”

“How come?”

Sam tilts his head, half a nod and half a shrug, with eyes too guileless for his face, “Probably cause I ditched the phones.”

There are a million troubling reasons why Sam would ditch the phones—numbers that they’ve had for years—and they cycle through Dean’s mind rapidly, dizzyingly, each more worrying than the last. Shit, Dean may have been running for his life in Purgatory, cutting a swathe through enemy territory, but he has no idea what Sam’s been through. If he had to go so hard to ground after Dick Roman died that he ditched all his modes of contact, what the fuck has life been like for him? It’s fear that sharpens Dean’s tone, makes it impossible for him to keep the edge from his voice, “Because?”

Dean definitely doesn’t like the expression on Sam’s face now, it’s one that he hasn’t seen in years, fucking years, not since Sam was a teenager and couldn’t wait to go his own way, hiding college applications under his mattress where a normal kid’s fucking porn stash would go; he looks reluctant, guilty, and strangely self-assured all at once, and Dean’s frown deepens in response.

“I guess, ah,” Sam exhales and shrugs, “I guess something happened to me this year too.”

Dean’s body is taut, braced for whatever shit happened to Sam, kept him from finding Dean, made him ditch his phones, and avoid Bobby’s, and stay out of touch with everyone; he’s braced for anything, for everything, except for what Sam actually says.

“I don’t hunt anymore.”

He drops that newsflash with total nonchalance, like “the sky is blue, water is wet, two plus two equals four, and I don’t hunt anymore,” with a half smile and a shrug as if to say ‘no big deal.’

Dean blinks as something decidedly unpleasant twists in his stomach.

He can’t help it, he laughs cause it’s fucking ridiculous. It’s fucking absurd. This is the goddamn funniest thing that he’s heard in a year, at least, but Sam doesn’t seem to think so: he doesn’t laugh, not at all, and Dean sobers quickly.

“You quit?” He can’t process the information; he stares at Sam disbelievingly. He takes in the suntan and the Fabio hair, and the well rested face with new eyes. Sam hasn’t just been taking care of himself; Sam has fucking retired; gone on vacation; closed up shop and moved on, while Dean was trying to get himself and his kid and his fucking angel out of hell in one piece. Everything around him seems to quiet, he can hear his own fucking heartbeat in his ears.

Sam keeps on talking with that same fucking offhanded delivery that makes Dean very suddenly want to hit something. .

“Yeah. Yeah, I – you were gone... Dean. Cas was gone, Bobby was dead. I mean, Crowley even shipped off Kevin and Meg to parts unknown.”

Something unfolds in Dean’s chest, pulsing and burning, as it unfurls, “So you just turned tail on the family business?” Betrayal, Dean thinks, detached, the feeling is betrayal.

Sam shrugs, as if Dean is the ridiculous one, as if Dean has some fucking unrealistic expectations or some shit, “Nothing says family quite like the whole family being dead.”

It’s that, more than anything else that has Dean’s blood boiling.

“The whole family wasn't dead,” there is a particular member of the family who, in fact, was fighting for her life just the same as Dean was, “In fact, I was knee-deep in God's armpit.”

Sam runs a hand agitatedly through his hair, and keeps on going, as if to coax Dean into a more rational state of mind, which has the exact opposite effect, “Look, Dean, as far as I knew, what we do is the thing that got every single member of my family killed. I had no one. No one. And for the first time in my life I was completely alone, and honestly I didn't exactly have a road map. So, yeah, I fixed up the Impala and I just drove.”

There’s a ringing silence again, the second one of the day; it’s shorter, and, yet, somehow shaper, more painful. It flashes through Dean’s brain and everything freezes and reboots rapidly—it doesn’t take more than a second for everything to click into place: the ditched phones, the fact that all the Purgatory lore was still at Bobby’s gathering dust, the strange expression on Sam’s face when he walked in the door. It all adds up to one thing. Dean breathes hard and he crosses his arms in front of his chest to keep from lashing out, to protect himself.

“After you looked for me,” he lays it out, he waits because surely, Dean must be mistaken, he has to be because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t just fucking leave Dean and Cas to rot. Sam would never do that. He would never…but Sam doesn’t respond, and the pause is all Dean needs by way of confirmation, but he presses on relentlessly, “Did you look for me, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even have the grace to look guilty about it, or ashamed, or worried, or fuck, concerned. He looks fucking calm as shit, and something inside of Dean, something fundamental, deep in the heart of him tears raggedly in two.

When he speaks, his voice is more of a growl than anything else, “Good. That's good. No, we always told each other not to look for each other. That's smart, good for you. Of course we always ignored that because of our deep abiding love for each other. But not this time, right Sammy?”

Sam rolls his eyes, tries for, what even is that? Friendly? Like they’re meeting up at a goddamn high-school reunion and pretending to give a shit about what the other’s been up to?

“I'm still the same guy,” he insists. Like that’s some fucking consolation.

“Well bully for you! I'm not,” Dean half shouts, because he’s not, and he fucking never will be again.

“Dean—”

“You know what, no,” he barks, “If our situations had been reversed,” he gestures between them sharply, “If you had gotten fucking sucked up into Leviathan Land, I would have torn this fucking world apart trying to get you out of that fucking place.”

Sam sighs heavily, like this is emotionally taxing for him. Sam, Dean decides suddenly, can go fuck himself.

“Did you even have any fucking proof that we were dead?” he spits, venomously, “Cas and me? Cause there sure as fuck weren’t bodies lying around.” Maybe Sam was happy about that, a small vicious voice whispers in the back of his mind, one less thing to do—digging a shallow grave, or building a pyre—before heading off footloose and fancy free. Dean tries to shove that thought away, but he can’t.

Sam opens his arms wide, “Dean, I don’t know what you expected me to do, okay?” He gives Dean impressively beseeching puppy eyes, which is the most blatantly fucking hypocritical bullshit right now, “You and Cas went in there not expecting to come out, not really—you were gone, Dick Roman was gone, the room was covered in black goo, what was I supposed to think?”

Dean is about two feet away from Sam, and struggling to keep himself from punching him in the face—he didn’t even look, and if he had…he thinks of the past year, all the gore and the pain and Cas letting go, Emma almost dying, every close call, every moment a fight for survival, not being able to sleep for a second because there were monsters fucking everywhere out for vengeance and blood, and still, in the midst of all of that, Dean had worried for Sam—

“I expect you to use your fucking skills to fucking make sure that we were actually dead before you left us to rot in a fucking hellhole. I expect you to fucking exhaust all the fucking possibilities before you just give up…Jesus Christ, Sam do you have any idea what the—” he’s half shouting at this point. He can feel the blood rushing to his head, the anger pooling in his gut and spreading heady and painful through his limbs. Sam is finally showing signs of not being so chill, in fact, he actually looks annoyed with Dean, which is just fucking rich, and he starts to reply with equal heat. That is when a small form comes zooming into the room, sliding to a halt right in front of Dean, arms spread wide in a defensive gesture, eyes glowing gold, fangs bared in a snarl, facing Sam with all the ferocity that four year old Amazon can muster.

It shuts both of them up. Sam looks straight up shocked. Eyes almost comically wide, and, for all that he doesn’t hunt anymore, it doesn’t take more than a few seconds for thirty years of training to kick in, wide eyed innocence is quickly replaced with terminator precision, and there’s no way he came into this unarmed. Dean sees him reach for his gun, and his heart straight up stops for a second—déjà vu and paralyzing fear replacing anger—then he launches himself into action.

“Sam,” Dean barks, “don’t.”

Emma doesn’t so much as flinch. She doesn’t move. She stays right where she is, between Dean and Sam, in a protective stance, as if she could, single handedly, take out the almost seven foot behemoth in front of her. Dean’s brain can barely process the fact that his daughter just rushed out here to fucking save him, but his brain is gonna have to catch up on that later, because right now there’s the fact that history is about two seconds away from repeating itself.

Sam glances away from Emma to look at Dean with something like betrayal in his eyes—the irony is off the charts, and if Dean weren’t caught in the middle of it, he’d find it fucking hysterical—

“What the hell?” Sam snaps, eyes narrowed.

“You remember, Emma,” Dean says by way of introduction. He crouches down behind her, places a hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t move, she continues to glare at Sam, her whole body on high alert. It’s only with his palm resting on her arm, kneeling down scant inches away from her bony shoulders, that Dean realizes that she’s shaking, all over, full body shudders, because she’s scared out of her fucking mind, but she’s standing on her own two feet, between Dean and what she perceives as danger, and there’s pride rising up alongside the fear in his chest, warm and bright.

Sam, for his part, looks puzzled, a frown rapidly encroaching his forehead, while he runs the name through his databanks, over and over, until a light of understanding dawns, and he raises his gun again.

“Emma? Like Seattle Emma?”

“Like my daughter, Emma,” Dean corrects with a razor’s edge to his voice.

They’re glaring at one another, Sam’s gun still trained on Emma, Emma’s eyes still trained on Sam, when another voice intervenes.

“Everything okay out here?”

Sam is distracted enough to turn, though, thankfully, not distracted enough to shoot first and ask questions later.

Benny moves slow and steady, calm as can be, but careful, like he he’s walking through a minefield. He keeps his palms raised, and a smile that’s all sweet tea and southern comfort plastered on his face.

“Thought she mighta run on out here,” he says, looking at Emma, and for all that his demeanor is calm and decidedly non-threatening, Dean can see the sharpness, the worry, and the anger in his eyes, “You boys were making a lot of noise.”

“Yeah…” Dean agrees.

“Ah,” Benny continues, appraising Sam’s gun, like it’s a hand proffered for shaking, like they’re old friends about to have a drink at a picnic or something, “you must be, Sam, Dean’s told me a lot about you.”

Sam’s face is ice cold, “I can’t say the same.”

Benny’s smile widens, sunny and dangerous, “Well, I can’t say that you two have talked much lately.”

Sam’s fingers tighten around the gun, which is pointed decidedly at Benny, not at Emma, which might be Benny’s entire game here. 

“Name’s Benny,” the vampire offers, “Friend of Dean’s.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, words laced with sarcasm, if looks could kill, well, Benny would be dead for a third time, “I bet.”

It’s Jody, as usual, who saves the day.

She takes in the scene with furrowed brows and her hands on her hips.

“’Don’t worry, Sherriff, I’ll take care of it,’” she mimics at Benny, doing a fairly impressive impression of his accent, which, at another time, would have Dean laughing pretty hard at his friend’s expense, as it is, he’s trying to tug Emma back into reality, and hoping to god that Jody can keep his brother from shooting his best friend or his daughter, “Sam,” she says, “put the gun away. Emma, sweetie,” she crouches down beside her, next to Dean, her mouth thinned with worry, “you should come back with me and Benny, okay? It’s not—your dad and your uncle need to talk about some grown up things.”

Emma keeps right on staring at Sam. Dean’s at her back, which is where she wants him, safe from the big, scary monster. Dean’s heart is in shreds. He’ll be lucky if he makes it out of this day in one piece, literally and figuratively, but he’s a million times more concerned with Emma making it out of this day at all.

“C’mon, Em, go with Jody, I’m okay, I swear.”

She tilts her head in the barest acknowledgement of his statement.

“I’m sorry, I got loud, but I’m okay, see? Not a dent in the fender, but you need to go with Jody and Benny for a little bit,” he glances up at his brother, whose face is a fucking storm cloud; he’d lowered the weapon at Jody’s suggestion but he’s still shooting daggers at Benny with his eyes, and Benny just keeps smiling, a wicked, sarcastic smile, like he’s daring Sam to try something. Dean does not need this shit in his life right now.

In the end, Benny has to physically remove Emma. She’s like an angry cat, or, for that matter, a pissed off guardian angel, and she does not want to leave Dean alone with Sam, but Benny is stronger than she is, and Emma’s silent struggle makes another knife twist in Dean’s chest as she’s carried away.

When they’re gone, the door safely locked behind them (safely because Dean has not yet taught Emma the fine art of picking locks, and Emma, at four, does not have the height necessary to reach the lock in that room, which begs the question, why the fuck didn’t Jody and/or Benny lock the fucking thing in the first place?).

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was about?” Sam spits the second they’re alone.

Dean rounds on him, and he can actually feel the anger radiating off of him in waves, “You remember Emma? My kid? Amazon? You shot her couple years back?”

Sam rolls his eyes, like this is an old argument that they should be past by now, “Dean, she wasn’t really—”

Dean waves a hand sharply, “I’m gonna stop you, right there, Sammy,” his eyes snap dangerously in cadence with his words, “she is my kid, and after you killed her, she ended up in that shithole—“ god only fucking knows what the hell happened to her between her death and Cas finding her; Dean tries not to think of what the bigger badder monsters would want with a tiny little thing like Emma, and he’s not a praying man, but he prays, every day, that whatever did happen, she won’t remember when she grows up, if she grows up (things like Sam have a tendency to shorten her life expectancy by a large margin), “Cas found her; knew who she was.”

Sam keeps right on frowning, “And Benny?”

Dean shrugs, “I wouldn’t be here without him,” plain, simple, and undeniably true, “Benny found me, told me about the way out, saved me, and Cas, more times than I can count.”

Sam tenses, but nods, seems to accept that, weirdly enough.

“What the hell happened to you, man? 

Dean’s eyebrows hit his hairline, “What happened to me?”

“You go to Purgatory with an angel, you come back with a vampire and a baby monster?”

Dean is struck speechless, suspended. He thinks of Cas with Emma cradled against his side, looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the universe; Cas pushing Emma into Dean’s arms, because it was worth staying in that fucking hellhole if it meant that she and Dean got out safe. The feeling of it, of those moments, is trapped inside of him. And he sees this shadow image of Cas, if he were here right now, the way that he would glower at Sam, full on, badass angel of the lord, “I will throw you into hell if you ever speak of Emma that way again,” loom over him, and it’s so clear, so potent, that Dean is paralyzed for a second. 

Sam takes advantage of Dean’s strangled silence. 

“What’re you gonna do?”

The question takes him by surprise, so much so that Dean actually has no clue what Sam’s talking about for a moment.

“Emma,” he prompts, “what’re you gonna do about Emma?”

Dean’s spine straightens on instinct, readying for a fight, it’s like he’s been showered in ice, every nerve alert and tingling. His tone is dark when he responds, “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, what are you planning to do with her? Get a car seat for the Impala?”  
It’s Sam’s tone that finally breaks whatever tenuous barriers Dean had crafted to keep himself in check. The way that Sam says it, like it’s impossible; like all those thoughts that Dean’s had, those wishes, of doing just that: loading Emma up into the backseat of the Impala and driving around until she fell asleep, or blaring AC/DC to give her a proper musical education, getting ice cream and not even being pissed when she drips soft serve on the leather, pulling over on the side of the road at night so they could watch the stars. Sam says it like Dean is bat-shit fucking crazy to be thinking any of that, hoping for it, fucking dreaming of it, and it’s the incredulous tone, the sarcastic delivery, the fact that Sam honest to god thinks that neither Dean nor Emma is good enough for that shit that sends him careening off the deep end.

“You know what, Sam?” this time he does get up in his brother’s face, “Maybe I am? Maybe that is exactly what I’m gonna fucking do.”

“Dean,” Sam starts with a sympathy to his voice and features that Dean can’t even read any more, can’t tell if it’s real or total bullshit, or somewhere in between, cause the Sammy he thought he knew wouldn’t leave him to rot for a year, the Sammy he thought he knew wouldn’t show up here acting like Dean, who had literally gone through hell to get back, to him, wasn’t even fucking good enough to have a fucking moment of peace with his fucking kid. That Sammy would not be starting this conversation as a prelude for all the reasons that Dean should put Emma down like a fucking dog. 

It’s the outrage, the fucking audacity of it, that makes Dean cut Sam off, pushes him to keep going, “What d’you want me to do with her, huh, Sammy?”

“Dean,” he tries, gesturing his hands as if to make peace.

“You want me to try to find a nice little tribe for her to settle down in? Hmm? I’ll just drop her off at the curb,” the words are laced with venom, every syllable burns, “Cause I’m sure that’ll work out great—an uninitiated Amazon, whose dad killed her whole tribe, I’m sure they won’t kill her on sight. Nah. Hell, I bet they have a bed set up, for situations just like this.”

Sam sighs heavily, frustrated.

“Or, you know what? How bout we drop her off at Social Services,” Dean keeps going; it’s like he can’t fucking stop, and it fucking hurts, every word of it, “cause that’ll be better. It’ll be great; I mean, she’s got my genes, right? She’s cute enough. Some nice family’ll take her in—she’ll have an apple pie life, a backyard and a swing set and a fucking Christmas tree,” the smile that stretches across his cheeks is a broken things, all sharp edges, and shattered glass; it’s ugly, and he can’t get rid of it, “It’ll be great, until she, you know, gets scared, or surprised, or angry, and then Mr. and Mrs. Jones realize their brand new trophy kid has fangs.”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“Hate to break it to you, Sam, but real life don’t have a Dr. X to come in and whisk the special kids off to a fucking academy. Best case scenario, she ends up back in the system, worst case, she ends up a goddamn test subject for the fucking government.”

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam interjects, “I’m not—”

“Or you know what? How about we get that .45 out again, huh? And then you can just shoot her, right between the fucking eyes, and this’ll be over. Emma will be rotting back in that fucking cesspool, and you’ll have one less cursed family member to worry about,” he snarls, the tide can’t be stopped, and it’s poisonous, vicious, “Cause that’s what you want isn’t it? You want to get rid of all the shit keeping you from that nice, normal apple pie life, right, Sammy?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, which, in its own way, is answer enough. Dean shakes his head, his jaw clenches, and there’s no disguising the sneer in his voice or his face.

“I’m gonna tell you something, and you better listen, real fucking good, cause I’m only gonna say this once,” he catches Sam’s eyes, point blank, “that kid in there, is my fucking daughter, and you may be my brother, Sam, but I swear to god, you touch one fucking hair on her head, and I will fucking break your arm, do you understand me?”

Sam swallows, glaring right back at Dean, grudging, hostile, torn between resentment, resignation, and annoyance, “Yeah.”

Dean nods sharply, “Good.”

They stare at each other for another minute, before Dean storms away, certain that if he stays in place for another moment he will break Sam’s arm preemptively, and just as sure that this conversation, if you can call it that, is far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do most humbly ask your pardon for the extreme lateness of this chapter. Life has been *crazy* for the past few months. I am not, and absolutely will not, give up on this fic. I just want to thank all of you so much for taking the time to read this story, for sticking with it, supporting it, and encouraging me. This chapter, you may notice is significantly longer than the previous installments, it is the chapter that I have, quite honestly, been looking forward to and dreading since the jump. I would most sincerely love to hear your thoughts on it. 
> 
> It should be noted (just as a preemptive move) that I do not hate Sam. I love Sam, very much, I love Sam through Dean. I almost just went on a rant about my feelings on Sam's psyche, but I'll spare you all. Suffice it to say that the development of Sam and Dean's relationship during season 8 was something about which I am still displeased. It was poorly handled, under addressed, and the resolution (if you can call it that) was unsatisfying, to say the least. As you may tell, that's not how it's going to be here. As we move through Season 8 in this fic, some things are going to change pretty hardcore, other things will remain similar (I do have a plan), and I sincerely believe that Dean's response to Sam in this chapter--is in character, even if it's more vocal. I think that finding Emma (and the progress that he's made with here), Cas not voluntarily *leaving* him, but choosing to save them both, having Benny and Jody, these things have a big effect on Dean in terms of his psyche at the start of 'Season 8.' 
> 
> Anyway, I'm done rambling. Thank you so much for reading and commenting and being wonderful.
> 
> More soon. 
> 
> This chapter in particular is dedicated to the incredible 8sword, who kicked me into gear re: actually finishing it. It was not the easiest to write, and the encouragement was desperately needed and deeply appreciated (as always xo)


	23. Fathers Be Good

Dean storms off, away from Sam, and, shit, he has not been this thoroughly pissed at his brother since the Ruby fiasco, which is actually not the best thing to be thinking about right now. He’s shaking with it, blood boiling in his veins. He wants to go back and yell at Sam some more. He wants to throw his fist into a wall. He wants to travel back in time and just…fuck, he doesn’t know what. Nothing can make this better; nothing will ever make this better. He’s literally seeing red at the edges of his vision. That’s how fucking angry he is. 

He paces the hallway three times fuming, heavy footsteps muffled only slightly by the layers of dust carpeting the floor. He tries to cool down, tries to find a zen place, reach enlightenment, find serenity or composure or some shit. He gives it up on the fourth loop and knocks (more like pounds) on the locked door, slamming the flat of his hand against the hard grained wood with enough force that his palm throbs with it. The sting feels good. 

Benny opens the door and leans on the frame, one burly arm barring Dean’s entrance. He looks him up and down with a slow, steady gaze. The smile that twists his face is wry. 

“Brother, you look ‘bout as happy a rabid bear,” Dean glowers, and Benny remains impassible; a solid barrier, keeping Emma in and bad guys out—Benny should probably get promoted to godfather status cause this is some Sirius Black level shit, “So it went well, then?”

Dean shoves past, and Benny lets him without any of the resistance that Dean knows he could, and would, use if necessary—keeping Emma in then. It’s almost a relief that Dean isn’t Lucius Malfoy in this scenario; it’s little consolation that Sam is probably Bellatrix Lestrange. 

Emma is sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest, back against Jody’s side. When Dean comes in, her head snaps up, her eyes are glowing gold and the skin around them is a bright, burning crimson—he wonders briefly if it hurts to keep them like this, or if it’s a relief to let that side out for so long. Her expression is wild, frenzied, and it takes all of two seconds for her to get to her feet and fly at Dean with all the speed and agility of a miniature Amazon. She hits him hard in the chest, the impact nearly knocks him back a step, but, surprised as he is, Dean opens his arms instinctively to catch her and closes them just as naturally to keep her. Her arms wind around his neck and fasten there, tight as she can (which is really fucking tight, Dean has to adjust her just slightly so that he can still breathe). Emma buries her face into the side of his neck, latched onto Dean with all of her limbs, and Dean hugs the hell out of her, his nose against her hair and his hands around her torso. It’s a hug for dear life; confirmation that, yeah, I’m okay, I’m alive, I’m here, I’m with you—see? I’ve got you. It’s not, when you get right down to it, very different from the hug that he shared with Sam just a few minutes (fuck, just a few minutes ago), except for all of the ways that it is. 

Having Emma in his arms calms him somehow beyond just reassuring him. He’s still mad as fuck at his brother, but he no longer feels like he’s ready to jump out of his skin, he no longer feels the burning need to break something. Emma struggles a bit to pull free, and Dean expects her to leap away, but, instead, she seems content to stay in the circle of his arms. She only puts enough distance between them so that she can peer into his face. Her gaze is…intense, focused, a ‘look into your soul’ level of staring. Dean wants to squirm away from it; he doesn’t want Emma to see what’s inside of him—the anger that had him wanting to kill something or someone not five minutes ago—but Emma, ever the perceptive one, places her hands, small and warm, on either side of Dean’s face, keeping him still, so that she can fully evaluate the situation. Her tiny nostrils flare as if she’s scenting the air (for blood maybe, Dean thinks, all signs did point to a violent confrontation earlier, or distress). She examines him with such a pointed degree of scrutiny that Dean is forcibly reminded of Cas.

“Okay?” she finally asks, a tense line between her tiny brows. Her voice is a little raspy, from stress and crying, but the word is laced with concern. She looks…worried, about what the answer to her question might be, or that Dean might get mad, might drop her like a hot potato for even asking. 

Dean shakes his head, he can’t help it, “Better,” he replies, cupping her head in his hand and gently smoothing her hair a bit. He bumps his forehead against hers. He fucking means it.

Emma looks at him some more, but she finally let’s go of his face and seems satisfied to curl herself against his chest. Dean realizes that she’s probably exhausted; he realizes a second later that so is he. He slinks down to the floor, Emma still in his arms, Jody across from him, and Benny leaning against the wall in the corner nearest the door, both of them watching the familial tableau, but (and Dean is way more grateful for this than maybe he should be) thankfully not commenting. He settles against the wall, Emma keeping his neck and torso in a stranglehold. He clears his throat as he rubs his hand gently against the back of her neck. If she were fully human, he’d worry that she had a fever—her skin is hot to the touch, and she’s shaking minutely. As it is, he thinks it might just be the fact that her tiny body has been in fight or flight mode for going on twelve hours straight and the stress is taking a toll. It sucks. This whole fucking thing sucks. Except, a guilty part of him thinks, for the part where Emma is voluntarily holding onto him.

“I should probably go back out there,” Dean admits ruefully. Emma’s head snaps up so quickly that Dean’s mind goes immediately to whiplash, spinal fractures, and he has to restrain himself from checking her upper vertebrae for damage. Jody sighs heavily. 

“No,” she gets to her feet with a slight grimace, wincing the same way Dean does sometimes at the aches in his knees, “You stay here. Sam’s less likely to shoot something if it’s me. Consider yourself in time out, Dean.”

Emma gives Jody a small smile, before tucking herself more securely against Dean’s chest. If she could, Dean’s beginning to realize, Emma would actually curl up inside of his ribcage, the Han Solo to his tauntaun. He should be disgusted or weirded out, but instead he’s reasonably flattered. He pulls her in more firmly, and she makes a little humming noise, rubs her nose against his flannel. 

“How come Dean’s in time out?” Benny asks with a drawl that might be teasing, “Last I checked, he was on his best behavior.”

Jody narrows her eyes, hands on hips, “They’re both in time out until they can have a conversation that doesn’t involve weapons.”

Benny mumbles something that might include the words ‘forever’ or ‘not likely’, and ‘Sam’s the one…’ before Jody slaps him lightly on the arm.

She gives Dean and Emma a strained almost wistful glance, “Try to rest a bit, you’ve had a long day…I’ll try to talk to Sam.”

Dean snorts, that fresh betrayal burning hot in his chest, “Good luck.”

Jody shakes her head, “We’ll talk when I get back. You—” she says, turning sharply to Benny, “—make sure they actually stay here.”

Benny grins at her, tips his hat, “Yes ma’am.”

Jody rolls her eyes, and leaves the three of them alone in the room. As soon as the door is shut and locked, Dean leans his head back against the wall with a discernable thunk and closes his eyes. Fuck, it’s been a long day. 

They sit like that for a moment: Emma with her claws digging through the layers of Dean’s shirts, Benny patiently keeping watch at the door, looking out for the two of them, and Dean with his eyes closed, his arm draped protectively over his daughter, and the makings of a killer headache pounding behind his eyes. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Benny asks. Dean knows that if he said no or if he ignored the question, Benny wouldn’t push, he would let the silence sit and give Dean his space. Sam would push—or anyway, the Sam that Dean thought he knew would push—make him talk it out even if he didn’t want to. The juxtaposition of the two models of brotherhood feels suddenly painful. He opens his eyes, looks down at Emma, who has fallen asleep, totally wiped out, and yet, even so, rests fitfully, where she should be dead to the world. Dean’s mouth twists, she should be able to sleep like a normal kid, a normal kid with a normal life, who doesn’t know about the shit that’s out there in the dark; she shouldn’t be ready to jolt awake at a moment’s notice, knife in hand because she’s all to aware of things that will get you if you move too slow. It’s Dean’s fucking fault she learned those lessons; it’s his fault she can’t have a good night’s sleep and, fuck, dream about unicorns and rainbows and apple pie a la mode. 

He looks over at Benny, languid but alert and waiting.

The words come in a rush, an agonized exhale of frustration, disappointment, fucking sorrow (and, huh, Dean didn’t even realize that last one was there).

“He didn’t even look for us.”

Benny’s hand tightens, very briefly on the knife in his hand, a quick tension that belies his anger. He relaxes quickly, but Dean still saw it. There’s something fucking awesome about Benny being ready to kick ass on Dean’s behalf, despite the instinctive kneejerk of anger at a threat to Sam. Dean’s a fucking mess. 

“I’m real sorry, brother,” he says, and Dean can tell that he means it. His words are heavy with regret. 

Benny wasn’t lying when he said that he’d heard about Sam. Dean talked about him all the time; it’s a fucking habit. Sam has been the fucking axis of Dean’s life since the age of four, and Dean is used to bragging about Sammy, worrying about Sammy, looking out for Sammy. Dean boasts about his bad ass baby brother—from his first place in the second grade spelling bee, to the time he decapitated Gordon Walker with his fucking hands—it hadn’t been different in Purgatory, Dean had talked about Sam to Benny, sharing stories of their misadventures. Sam was on Dean’s mind, an itch, a worry, a hope, a fear. Dean knew, from day one, that Sam was looking for a way to get them out; working tirelessly, endlessly to rescue them, unless Sam himself was dead, injured, trapped, caught in the crossfire that brought down the leviathan and let the demons rise. It never occurred to Dean that there was a third option… 

“Me too,” Dean adds. 

“Did something happen?”

Dean snorts, shakes his head, “No, no, he just gave up.”

Benny looks like he might want to clap Dean on his shoulder, but he doesn’t give up his place at the door, keeping watch like he said he would. 

Jody returns a half an hour later with a stormy face. Emma, curled up as tightly as possible on Dean’s chest, snaps awake and immediately hulks out. 

It takes Benny’s gentle, “Shhhh, easy there,” and Dean’s careful (but firm) hand bracing the nape of her neck to keep her from launching at Jody on pure instinct. When she’s back in the conscious world, and realizes what she did, she proceeds to hide her face, tired and a little embarrassed (if the bright red blooming across her cheeks is anything to go by), in the front of Dean’s shirt, while he sighs and rubs what he hopes is a reassuring palm against her shoulder blades. 

Dean doesn’t have to ask how it went.

“I don’t think he’s going to shoot anyone, so there’s that,” Jody says, “but he’s…angry and confused.”

Dean’s eyes almost pop out of his head, “He’s angry? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Jody shrugs, resigned and tired, “As far as Sam is concerned, you just came back from the dead—again—with a kid and Lestat over here. He needs to…adjust.”

You know how in Looney-Toons, when characters get really fucking pissed off, their heads turn into tea kettles, red and angry, with steam hissing out of their ears? Dean finally understands what that feels like; he’s hit the boiling point.

“Adjust?” he growls out, “He needs to adjust?” Like Dean and Cas had adjusted to Purgatory? Like Emma had? “We didn’t just throw him to the fucking wolves, for fuck’s sake, he should be fucking relieved not need time to—”

“Dean,” Jody cuts in sharply, with a pointed glance at Emma.

His kid looks demented. Fucking scared as shit. She’s clearly not sure where the threat is, but she’s absolutely positive that there is one. She’s backed away from Dean, towards Benny, bristling, alarmed, and confused by Dean’s mood. Her first instinct when Dean is angry is to be worried that he’s going to lash out at her. Her second is to protect those near her—she’s got Benny at her back, probably in case Dean goes on some kind of killing rampage, and Jody at her side, almost as if for back up or protection, because Emma trusts Jody, on instinct, to be her ally in a fight. Suddenly, once again, Dean is the enemy, the monster in the closet, the killer in plain sight, and, past the anger, past the fucking rage all he feels is shame. It’s ten types of horrible having Emma look at him like that, of having her be scared of him.

So he tries; he chokes down whatever he’d been about to say, swallows past the anger, tries to see through the red clouding his vision. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“You should talk to him,” she says once he’s taken a deep breath or two, “Talk,” she repeats, for emphasis, “Explain things.”

Dean literally bites his tongue. He glances at Emma in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner, he opens his palms, peaceable, weaponless, but she stays right where she is, she doesn’t approach him. He probably looks, upon consideration, like the rabid bear that Benny called him earlier, and Emma’s not stupid enough to come near him. 

“Fine,” he says, getting to his feet, because Sam has some explaining to do, too. 

Actually making the conversation happen, is a bit more complicated. Emma does not want Dean anywhere near Sam. Emma also does not want Dean anywhere near her. The resulting emotional combination is what could very well be termed a nervous breakdown. Emma doesn’t want him to leave, but when he moves to reassure her, she recoils so hard that she flings herself into the wall. She’s a yo—careening between aborted launches towards Dean, straining to keep him in the room, and recoiling with pained flinches whenever he reaches out to her. She looks like she’s freaking herself out, and Jody’s attempts to sooth, Benny’s to calm, and Dean’s to make things better, while ultimately making them worse, have her even more unstable, uncertain. The conflict, the confusion, leaves her shaking and crying, blindly clawing at herself. Dean reaches out sharply when he sees the first drop of blood, desperate to detain her movements. But the second his fingers touch her arm, she screams, and then it’s Dean who recoils, hands up in surrender, fingertips colored by his daughters blood. It’s agonizing; he’s useless, he can’t do shit while his kid fucking tears herself apart from the inside out. What’s worse? He’s the fucking villain here; he’s the reason that she’s doing it. He can’t stay with her, he can’t leave her, he can’t do fuck all except hurt her. Watching Emma with her hands pulled over her head, confused and frustrated, scared, and above all else, fucking exhausted, kills him. It fucking kills him. Her claws are digging into her skull and it’s Benny who is able to pry them off, it’s Benny who bundles her against his chest, while she struggles, taking deep, deep breaths in the attempt to slow her ragged sobs and strangled breathing. Dean is powerless, he’s fucking hopeless, and when Jody places a steadying hand on his shoulder, it’s all he can do not to shrug her off on principle, because he doesn’t deserve it. His eyes burn as he watches Emma lash against Benny, eyes darting imploring and betrayed in Dean’s direction. 

The day, impossibly, painfully, only gets longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: I'm so sorry for how late this is. Second: I'm really sorry that it's not necessarily the best or most well written installment in this story. Third: THANK YOU SO MUCH for sticking with me and this story through my 'hiatus.' There's been a lot of real life stuff over the past few months that has thrown off my writing groove, but, hopefully, I'll be back with more regular posting. I cannot express how much I truly appreciate your patience, encouragement, and support. I'd love to hear what you think of this latest update. Until next time. xo


	24. Brother Mine

“Are you bleeding?”

Dean is startled, spent, and distracted. For a moment, he honestly has no idea what the hell Sam is talking about. Then he looks at his hands where rust red flakes stand stark against his fingertips. It’s not his blood, but somehow, Dean feels like he should be bleeding, that he’s been gut shot, is spilling out. There’s an ache in his chest seeing the red streaked across his skin, and he wants it gone, off of him. 

This is not the first time that Emma’s blood has been on his hands—he remembers washing it off once before, in a gas station sink, dirty, rusted, and with a cracked mirror whose surface he’d avoided as he watched the pinked water swirl down the drain. It had been the last trace of her then. All too easy to wipe away with cheap bar soap, leaving his hands dry and chapped, because he’d scrubbed harder than he needed to. He’d glanced at his reflection after turning the squeaky taps—the sink was a leaky one, water keep right on dripping down the drain even after Dean had finished—his face looked back at him, shadowed, gaunt, exhausted. He’d left without a backward glance. 

He had known that there was no blood on his hands, that he’d gotten it all off, just as much as he knew that he would never fully wash them clean of this newest stain. At the time, he thought that was the last of her, the only remnant of his kid on earth left behind there by the wayside, buried and then washed out like a blemish, unseemly and unwanted. Now, looking at his palms, the way the blood has dried into the whorls of his fingerprints, they way it’s flaked, dull and lifeless beneath his nails, a chill runs up his spine, and he wonders, as if from far away, how many more times he’ll see his daughter spill blood, how many more times it will be his fault, how many times he can survive that before he brakes.

“Dean,” Sam says sharply, “Are you bleeding?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw; he wipes the back of his hand, almost wonderingly, against this forehead. When he responds, the words are clipped, unconsciously hostile.

“No, I’m not.”

Sam’s giant forehead crinkles in something like disbelief or maybe even concern. Dean’s honestly not sure that Sam is capable of feeling concern right now. At least when Sam was soulless there was a fucking excuse for him to be an uncaring, selfish bastard. It’s easier to forgive your brother for letting you get turned into a vampire out of curiosity (or even as part of a grand, multi-generational pact with a demon and your own damn grandfather to unleash hell on earth) if, in the end, you realize that he has no soul, almost zero emotions, a complete absence of morals. Dean could roll with that. It was shitty, far from the ideal, but it wasn’t really Sam, none of that shit that he pulled while his soul was in hell was Dean’s Sam. He could forgive it; hell, Sam beat himself up more than enough for both of them once he was himself again, but this…a part of Dean, unbidden and almost immediately revoked, wishes that Sam were soulless right now, however difficult it would be to get it back, to find it and shove it into his brother, it would least explain this shit in a way that Dean could fucking stomach. As it is, he can hardly look at his brother. His stupid, selfish, fucking brother. The fact that Dean feels fucking nostalgic for that hellish time is a testament to how fucking terrible his life is right now. It’s fucking disturbing, but it’s honest, and that’s probably the worst part.

“Did Emma—?” Sam trails off with his brows raised and a tilt of his head, calculating, predatory.

Dean feels the familiar straightening of his spine, shifting into a stance ready for a fight, “Did she what Sam? Take a bite out of dear old dad?”

Sam tilts his head as if to say, ‘you’re the one who said it, not me…’ wide doe eyes belying a disingenuousness that has Dean wanting to break his nose.

“No, Sam,” Dean half snarls, “she didn’t.”

“It’s not like it was an unwarranted question, Dean.”

Far from being placated, Dean is further incensed by Sam’s holier than thou, would be calming tone. 

“It’s Emma’s blood, Sam,” he spits, furious, “cause she’s in there literally tearing herself to shreds because she’s fucking terrified.”

He doesn’t specify the who of that statement, nor does he elaborate that she’s still almost as scared of Dean as she is of Sam, that it was Dean who had sparked this most recent meltdown. 

Sam’s face morphs into a strangely contorted expression that Dean identifies as being somewhere between ‘I’m so sorry, that sucks’ and ‘Well, turns out I was right, go figure.” Dean’s fists clench at his sides. 

They sit in silence for a moment: Sam seemingly with nothing to say, and Dean so full of hateful thoughts and fragmented feelings that he can barely speak. Words swarm like angry wasps in his chest, stinging his throat and his tongue before they can get out. His head pounds and he sits at the table across from his brother, knuckles white, and features stern. 

When Jody had ushered him out into the kitchen, Dean had resisted, he had resisted with a fierce obstinacy that had surprised him far more that it had surprised Jody. She looked sad in the face of his anger, his frustration, his need to make this all better for Emma. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, stared him straight in the eye, her mouth twisted and tight.

“I know,” she told him, “Dean, I get it, believe me…I get it. But you can’t help her right now,” Dean had made to interrupt, but Jody cut him off, “The best thing you can do for her is to let her calm down a little,” she glanced over to where Benny was rocking Emma, bundled tightly to his chest, wrapped beneath his coat, humming as he turned circles around the room. Emma was shaking minutely, her cries having dulled to a muffled sobbing punctuated by the occasional keening wail. Each cry hit Dean like a bullet. Jody shook her head, mouth pursing, “Poor kid is probably exhausted, she needs to sleep and she needs to be a little…less stimulated. It’s a lot.”

Dean swallowed, hard, knowing that his very presence was sending spikes of pain and fear through her little form. He didn’t have to anything or say anything, he just had to be there for his kid to be in pain. He hadn’t felt so viciously uncomfortable in his own skin since hell. 

His voice cracked against the truth, “Yeah.”

Jody squeezed his forearm, “Go talk to Sam. We’ll take care of her.”

That’s how Dean had found himself wandering into the kitchen, head full of guilt, heart full of pain, like something was torn from him, like he was internally bleeding. He hadn’t realized, at the time, that there was some blood on the outside too. 

The silence that sits between him and Sam feels somehow one sided. Anger radiates from Dean, there’s a seething mess at the very core of him, and it feels like it’s rising off of him in waves—the frustration, the sorrow, the fear, the fucking betrayal. Sam’s deliberate air of nonchalance, of carefree innocence, his begrudging presence, does nothing to ameliorate the sensation. It’s like Dean’s hostility bounces right off of his brother, reflecting back at Dean and gaining momentum on each subsequent pass. It’s reaching a crescendo of discomfort and it’s becoming hard to tolerate. 

He tries to distract himself, to keep himself from doing something stupid. He rubs at that bloodstains on his fingers, which don’t budge. He glances up to find Sam passively and disinterestedly flipping the pages of one of the books that Jody brought in from Bobby’s. His thoughts are muddled, sharp and disconnected. He thinks of Bobby, whether he’d be pissed at Dean or Sam or both of them, what he would do with Emma. He thinks of Cas, alone, lost; thinks of how, if Sam had helped, if Sam had tried, Cas might be here—the anger reaches a boiling point, he tries to redirect it—he thinks of Cas sitting next to him at the table, nah, that’s not right, Cas would fucking be looming over the two of them, frustrated, brokering peace—he would be the tie breaker, at the very least, introducing some no-nonsense glaring into the proceedings. Thoughts of Cas give way to thoughts of getting Cas back, before doubling back around to the harrowed look on his face, the firm push through the portal. Dean has to get him out—hopes he’s still alive, please, fucking, please be alive…They need to open the door, they need to find a way, a map, a key, a—Dean’s thoughts suddenly stop. A frisson runs from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, and he looks up, looks right at Sam when he says:

“What the fuck happened to Kevin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came to the starling realization whilst getting ready to post this chapter that this fic is going to be incredibly long. I also came to the starling realization whilst writing this chapter that I've written way too many chapters that all take place in the first episode of season eight and I really need, if you'll excuse the musical quotation, to break on through to the other side. 
> 
> Sorry for all the brotherly angst in this chapter. Sam and Dean clearly have some shit they need to work out. Also, sorry (but also *not* sorry) that I left Emma to be comforted against Benny's bosom this chapter; there is only so much agony I can visit upon that child in any one sitting and she needed a break. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for continuing to read this story. Thank you, too, for all of your encouragement, feedback, and love. It means so much to me, and this story would not still be going without your support. You are all spectacular, and I am incredibly grateful. 
> 
> For random ficlets and occassional bouts of me yelling about Emma, Dean, and Cas, you can also find me at musingsdeme.tumblr.com.
> 
> The next chapter will (baring any unforeseen circumstances) be up next weekend.
> 
> Until then. <3


	25. Voices in the Wind

“Kevin?” Sam says, looking up like a deer startled by headlights, an impending car accelerating towards him instead of slowing down, looking doom in the face and unable to run.

“Yeah,” Dean continues, relentless, “’bout yea high, Asian, hates red meat, loves Mozart, was gonna go to Princeton till we fucked up his life. Remember him?”

Sam blinks, “Yeah, of course—”

Dean leans forward, and the pounding in his head has dulled, leaving behind a piercing silence and an icy cold sense of clarity—all the better to appreciate the coming blow, “Where is he?”

Sam leans back, rubs a hand through his hair, then against the back of his neck, “Well, like I, uh, said,” he clears his throat, “Crowley took him.”

Dean blinks, once, “Crowley took him,” he repeats, for emphasis, for clarity because that is just un-fucking-believable.

“Yeah, that’s, ah, what happened.”

“And you, you looked for him, right?” Dean continues, and, at this point, he’s about ninety percent positive that he’s only hurting himself here, with every confirmation of betrayal, every charge levied against Sam, his brother seems to grow more distant, rising farther and farther above the gravity of the situation, while Dean feels mired in it. His insides are being rubbed over with sandpaper and the exposed rawness sprinkled liberally with salt.

Sam says nothing, his brows rise even higher, his eyes open almost comically wide. He looks like a little kid caught in the wrong, upset at being caught, but not at all vexed by the sin he’s committed, and hoping against hope that cuteness and a plea of ignorance, innocence, will carry him through, save the day and his hide.

“Great,” Dean’s headache begins to pound, once again, at his temples, behind his eyes, “Where’re your phones?”

Dean gets them (the ones that Sam didn’t ditch anyway), takes a deep fortifying breath, and listens to the voicemails (there are over twenty), while Sam makes himself a sandwich and grabs a water bottle. 

Dean listens to Kevin, and the experience is actually painful. It’s an audio-recording of someone’s descent into hunting, the gradual undoing of a person’s life, of their sanity, of their chances at normal. The kid’s tone goes from panicked, to terrified, to fearful, to angry, and finally to resigned. By the time Dean is through, his jaw is clenched so tightly that his headache has spread down, wrapped around the base of his skull. There is tension in every muscle of his body. It’s all he can do not to lash out. Physical violence has always been a part of Dean’s world, but for the past year there was no line between civilian life and line of fire. There was no moment where weapons were hidden, where violent impulses needed to be suppressed. It’s hard to rein it back: to ask questions first and attack later. He’s been cautious about this while it’s been just him and Emma, careful not to startle or scare her (and he’s clearly fucked that up), but violence is her first response too. All she’s known for her whole life is a verified war zone; and that’s all Dean’s had for the past year. His hand grips the phone and he feels the absent weight of his knife. The fact that his immediate response to Sam in this moment is a violent one worries him on an abstract level that he can’t afford to analyze closely right now. He is at least minimally aware that he should consider later. He tries to breathe through his nose, tries to still the impulse. 

Dean didn’t have the normal descent into hunting. Neither did Sam. They were raised in this life. Sam never knew anything else, not until he was old enough to run away and find normal on his own (selfish, a voice in Dean’s head, so long ignored, so recently awakened, hisses, selfish little Sammy doing what he wants and screw everyone else). Dean had treasured memories of normal, scattered and sepia toned, tinged with time and nostalgia, but distant, far away, scenes from another life. 

Kevin’s calls don’t remind him of his own experience. Dean had never been like Garth or Bobby; not like Jody or Rufus or Gordon—thrust headfirst into a world they didn’t understand as adults, faced with a radical crisis of identity and a rupture with reality. Dean had grown up in this world, he became a man in this world, learned to hold a gun at eight, and dug his first grave at thirteen; he’d killed more monsters by seventeen than most seasoned veterans have even hunted at forty. Yet, somehow, still there’s still a visceral response to Kevin’s messages, a strange sense of familiarity, an ‘I know that feeling.’ The sensation niggles at the back of his mind, scratching against his consciousness, rooting through memories until it’s suddenly there, in full force, and Dean is twenty-six, standing in Lawrence with something like panic spreading icy through his veins, calling his dad from behind a gas station so that Sammy wouldn’t see, wouldn’t know that Dean didn’t know what to do, was scared of his fucking mind and in way over his head. Calling his dad, begging, fucking pleading, for help, and no one answering. Dean was alone. The person who was supposed to help wasn’t there. Had left. Static on the line, an unanswered shout into the fucking void. Voicemail after voicemail, fear, hope, anger, mounting panic, resignation, more anger. Lying in a hospital bed a few weeks later, heart struggling to force blood through his veins, he was gonna die, he remembers, and his dad couldn’t even be bothered to pick up then. Not for Dean, not even for Sam. 

Dean looks at Sam like he’s never seen him before. This tall man across from him is suddenly someone that Dean can’t recognize, a total stranger in his brother’s skin. He can’t see the child he raised, the boy whose nose he’d wiped and dinner he’d made; the kid who asked him for advice on girls and trusted him with his secrets and fears; the young man so eager to leave, so angry at their dad, for controlling them, for leaving them, for using them. Dean’s world slows and stills, and, for a moment, he feels idly, as if from far away, that something is shattering, something precious falling into jagged edged shards, sharp and painful where they imbed themselves deep inside of him. 

That’s when he pulls off the headphones and makes Sam listen: Sam who makes a face of polite, if mild, concern. Sam who sees the disapproval in Dean’s eyes, who senses the anger coming off of him in waves, but who appears only slightly contrite as he listens to Kevin’s descent, each message a step further from the bright future he could, should have had. 

“He was our responsibility,” Dean says, and his voice is much more level, if much darker, than he expected, “he was our responsibility, and you couldn’t pick up the damn phone.” 

He throws the offending article at Sam who catches it, and he realizes, looking at Sam’s expression, that his brother doesn’t understand why Dean is so mad right now, and his obliviousness, his will to ignorance, makes Dean want to laugh, laugh until he can’t breathe, laugh until his sides hurt and tears run down his face because: how can Sam not see the irony? How can he miss how fucked up this is? Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t think he knows how to laugh anymore; he’s not sure he even knows how to cry. 

Sam suggests that they look for Kevin, try to find him, and Dean can barely contain his snarl. Like you should have done months ago? He wants to scream, Like you should have tried to find me and Cas? He doesn’t. He nods instead, let’s Sam work some techno-magic on his laptop. He rises from the table, stalks outside. The humid night air clings to his skin, and the stars are hidden by roiling clouds; he closes his eyes and breathes deep through his nose. What the hell is he gonna do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of Emma in this chapter, but Sam and Dean needed to 'talk', and Emma needed a nap. She'll be front and center in the next installment, which should be up either next weekend, or the weekend after. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and encouraging this story. You are all incredible.


	26. Learning Curve

“What are you gonna do with her?” Sam asks.

They’ve been working at the table for an hour now, ever since Dean came back inside. During that time, they’ve remained completely silent and studiously avoided on another’s eyes. Now, Dean faces Sam’s gaze head on and cocks an eyebrow at his brother. 

“When we go to get Kevin?” Sam clarifies.

Dean does not bother to keep the indignation from his voice: “You think I’m taking my kid anywhere near fucking Crowley?”

Sam takes a deep breath through his nose, “I’m just asking, Dean, okay?”

Dean glares, arms crossed firmly over his chest, angry and a little bit defensive. 

Sam doesn’t say anything, but Dean would know that constipated look on his face anywhere. It’s judgment. He’s definitely biting his damn tongue. Everything about his expression, from the wide eyes that don’t quite meet Dean’s to the forced neutral set of his mouth, screams, “I have plenty to say but I’m holding my peace until you’re feeling more sensible.” Dean’s not in the mood.

“Just say it,” he demands.

“What?” Sam replies.

“Whatever it is that’s got your panties in a twist.”

Sam exhales, “Well, what are you gonna do with her, Dean?”

“I already told you, I’m—”

“I mean after this,” Sam interrupts, “You gonna leave her with Benny or Jody every time you go out on a hunt? You gonna take her along? Drag her across the country with you; let her camp out in motel rooms? That’s not a way to raise a kid, Dean.”

“You think I don’t know that,” Dean spits. His hackles rise and his right hand clenches into a fist.

Sam frowns, but there’s something almost sad in his eyes, “Do you?”

“You think I don’t know how fucked up the way we grew up was?” Dean practically growls, “You think I want that for her?”

Sam shrugs, “You’ve always defended dad, and I know you, well, you’ve always looked up to him, but, if you really…if you’re really planning to keep Emma, you’re going to have to, well, change, and I’m just making sure that you know that.”

Dean’s throat is tight. He’s thought of little else for weeks now: what the hell he’s gonna do with his kid; all the ways he’s fucked up already, and all the ways he wants to make up for it, make things better for her. Shit. Dean knows, intimately, the type of life that Emma deserves, has deserved all along. Dean also knows, intimately, the type of life that Emma has had so far; the type of life she would have if Dean takes a leaf out of his father’s book. He shudders against the image of her, alone in a motel room, waiting for him to come home from a hunt, holding a shotgun and staring at the door, surviving on burnt Spaghetti-Os and robbing the local 7-Eleven when the money runs out. Dean may be a fuck up of the highest order, but he would do anything to spare his kid that life. 

The memory of his Dad shutting closing the door in Dean’s face, the weight of a knife in his hand, a hand that was too small, is sharp, and it’s too easy to conjure the image of himself shutting the door of a nameless motel room on Emma, her face looking back up at him with determined eyes and a too tight mouth. 

It’s that vision, far too real, far too possible, that makes his voice gruff.

“Yeah, well, having a kid changes your perspective on shit,” he rubs a hand against the wooden table top the gains rough beneath calloused fingers, “We deserved better than what we got, and if you think I’m gonna do that to her, you’ve got another thing coming…I’m not dad.” It’s maybe the first time he’s said that to someone as if it’s a good thing. He’s surprised to find that the world didn’t come crashing down around him at the words. He’s even more surprised to realize that he meant them, that he’s proud to not be his dad. Proud to at least try to be better than John was. 

Sam stares at Dean for a moment, clearly surprised, but also, maybe, the tiniest bit proud. He nods, and they get back to work. 

They don’t talk about Emma again that night. They don’t talk about dad. They don’t talk their fucked up childhoods or about Purgatory or Cas or what the hell Sam’s been doing for the past year. Dean forcibly keeps himself from laying into Sam about abandoning Kevin. The stay on task, on topic, or they stay silent. Dean can’t help with the techno-tracking that Sam’s doing, so he works through one of the books that Jody brought from Bobby’s library. He struggles to make sense of some weird ass, cryptic as fuck, chapter on Purgatory that seems to have been written half in iambic pentameter and half in Hebrew. The headache that’s been plaguing Dean on and off all day is pulsing again, but the pain and the work are welcome distractions from everything else. By the time that Sam’s managed to locate Kevin, Dean is still no closer to pulling Cas out of Purgatory, but one out of two ain’t bad. He’ll take what he can get at this point. They spend another hour strategizing. 

By the time they’ve hacked out a plan, it’s past ten and Dean feels his exhaustion down to his bones. Sam plans to crash in one of the (hundred or so) spare rooms. Jody apparently gave him a sleeping bag and a battery-operated lantern earlier. Their goodnights to one another are stilted and awkward. 

“I’m glad you’re back, Dean,” Sam says, shuffling his feet.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, “yeah, it’s, ah, good to see you, Sammy.”

They avoid each other’s eyes. Dean clears his throat, puts his hands in his pockets. 

Sam runs a hand through his hair.

“Uh, I’ll, um, see you in the morning,” Sam says.

“Yeah, ‘night, Sam.”

They go their separate ways. 

Only Jody remains in the room where Dean left them all earlier. She’s sitting in the corner, reading a book. 

“Where—?” Dean starts.

Jody marks her page.

“Benny took Emma to her room,” she says, “we thought it might help her to settle down a bit.” 

“Oh, okay.” 

Dean hesitates, his instinct is to run to his kid, but he feels like he owes Jody something, a thank you, a quick conversation.

Jody smiles, she seems to read Dean’s thoughts through his facial expressions alone. He wonders if it’s because she was a parent once. There’s something about moms, he’s always thought, that lets them see straight through all of your bullshit. A maternal super power that gives them the ability to read volumes in a shifty expression or a sour face. Dads, he thinks ruefully, don’t get that shit. At least he sure as fuck didn’t. It’s a sharp learning curve. 

Jody’s smile though, seems to be knowing in a different way, less like he’s her child and more like he’s her equal. Which is, well, it’s weird as fuck. Completely undeserved. From what he understands, Jody was a fucking awesome mom and Dean is pretty much the worst type of deadbeat dad and absentee parent. But despite his frankly less than stellar track record, Jody regards him with a perceptive expression that speaks to a shared set of worries and fears and anxieties that she can read through the set of his shoulders because she’s felt them all in one form or another. It’s a strange thing, he realizes, to share a sense of comraderie with someone because you both know the absolute, paralyzing terror of having a tiny person completely in your care, rely on you, need you, and stare in the face of the million ways you could fuck up on a daily (in Dean’s case, hourly) basis. It’s fucking terrifying, but also, somehow, a relief to have someone fucking understand. 

“How did it go?” she asks. 

He shrugs, “Not as bad as it could’ve.”

“Well, that’s a start,” she smiles dryly. 

“We found Kevin.”

A crease forms between Jody’s brows, “You’re going to go get him then, you and Sam?”

Dean shrugs, “That’s the plan.”

Jody nods, her expression tight and focused, “We’ll take care of Emma while you’re gone.”

“Jody, you’ve already—” 

“Dean, shut up,” she interrupts, “You’re not taking her with you and you’re not leaving her by herself. Benny and I have got this.”

There’s something inside of him that swells with pride because Jody automatically assumed that he wouldn’t put Emma in danger by either dragging her along or leaving her behind. That Jody expected him to do right by Emma, that Jody trusted Dean not to do anything that would fuck up his daughter, makes his chest feel tight and warm. 

“You sure?” he asks, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. 

“Don’t make me use my mom voice.”

Dean laughs despite himself. 

“We’ll work out the details in the morning, now go see your kid. She’s worried Sam offed you—”

He wishes that that was a joke, but knows that it’s not. 

“—and you’ve clearly been worried about her.”

“Thanks, Jody,” he means it so deeply. The words are heavy with gratitude, and he knows that he’ll never be able to pay her back for all the things she’s done for him, for them. 

“Go on,” she says, and she shoos him out of the room with a stern glare and a wave of her hand. 

The door to Emma’s room is closed, but not locked, and Dean opens it as quietly as he can. He moves slowly, carefully, trying not to make a sound, overcome with a fresh wave of uncertainty and nerves. 

The room is dark. The only light comes from the window in the far wall, the frame and sill of which are covered in protective sigils. Emma’s nest of blankets is set up in the same place it was last night, but he doesn’t immediately she his daughter. But his foot hits a creaky floorboard and there’s a respondent flash of gold from beneath the fold of a particularly lumpy blanket. Emma is curled up tight in her little nest of blankets, nestled so deeply within their folds that it’s only the glow of her eyes that gives her away, peering out at him studiously, a bright flare of gold in an otherwise dark room. He’s sorry that he woke her. Talk about starting things on the wrong foot, literally. He glares at his boots for a moment as if betrayed. 

Benny, unlike Emma, is readily visible. He leans against the wall, overlooking Emma’s nest with his arms crossed, clearly watching over her. A guardian angel complete with fangs. It’s oddly appropriate. He nods at Dean, but doesn’t ask how the talk went. One of the many awesome things about Benny. Dean’s relieved that he doesn’t have to rehash his shit-storm of a day again. Benny seems to know intuitively how the talk went; hell, maybe his Bram Stoker features let him listen to the whole damn thing. Either way, Dean’s glad of the quiet understanding and too tired to be worried about violations of privacy. Benny simply walks over to Dean, lays a large, warm hand on his shoulder: a gesture of solidarity, a changing of the guard. 

“Good luck, brother,” he says and leaves. 

Dean takes a deep breath when the door clicks shut behind him. He steals himself before walks closer to his daughter, every step calculated and precise. Emma watches him the whole way. He slides down next to her little nest, rests his back against the wall, bends his knees, and clasps his hands loosely on top of them. Emma hasn’t gotten up and bolted, so he takes that as a good sign. Of course, she could just be afraid to make any sudden moments with a monster in the room. He’s so screwed. 

“It okay if I sit here?” he asks in a whisper.

Emma stares up at him with big eyes and nods slowly. 

“Okay.”

They sit quietly for a few moments: Dean struggling to say something, Emma observing him closely without uttering a single word. 

“I’m sorry I scared you earlier,” he says quietly, turning a battered silver ring around his finger, “I wasn’t mad at you. I was just…I was mad, but I shouldn’t’ve acted like that. Not with you there.”

He looks over at Emma, her eyes aren’t glowing any more. They’re a human color, reflecting the scant light from the window in a human way while she watches him.

Dean swallows hard against a lump in his throat and tries to ignore the tight, painful knot in his stomach. 

“You shouldn’t be scared of me; I mean, I don’t want you to be,” he rubs a hand through this hair, against the back of his neck, “I get why you are,” he admits, “I don’t blame you. Hell, I—” he thinks of the million reasons why his daughter should be afraid of him, there are so many more than she even knows, so many that he prays she never discovers, “—sometimes I’m scared of me to, but I…I’m not gonna hurt you, Emma.”

She doesn’t say anything, and it’s hard to read her expression in the darkness. He wishes that he knew what to do, what to say. He just doesn’t. He has nothing to offer this kid. Nothing. She deserves so much better. Emma’s life has been fucked from the first second, all because she had the bad luck to get saddled with his fucked up ass as her parent. He is so fucking screwed; he doesn’t know how to be what she needs. He can’t, he just…

“Fuck,” his thoughts and fears are tangled. Memories of his dad are jumbled with and against the still crystal clear image of Emma struggling away from him only a few hours ago. Shit, what would Bobby say? Bobby, Dean thinks, would probably tell him to get his head out of his ass, stop actin’ like a damned fool, and talk to his damn kid. So Dean tries. 

“It’s okay for you to feel scared,” he tells her, “it’s okay for you to cry if you need to. And it’s okay if you don’t—if you don’t trust me, but I’m—I’m your—you’re my kid, Em, and I’m not gonna hurt you. Okay? No matter what. It’s my job to protect you and take care of you, and make sure you’re okay.”

Emma pulls a blanket up over her face, and Dean isn’t sure what the fuck to do with that.

“Hey,” he reaches out to her, “hey, Emma, c’mon, it’s okay.”

He hesitates before laying a broad hand on top of her tiny shoulder (or where he imagines her tiny shoulder to be). Her little body trembles and she radiates that preternatural warmth he’s come to associate with her resting temperature. Fuck him if she ever does get sick, cause he won’t know what the fuck to do, what the hell would an Amazon fever even look like? He forcibly draws himself away from that particularly terrifying avenue of thought, and back to the present, only slightly less terrifying, reality of the moment. 

“Hey,” he whispers, “hey,” he soothes, “it’s okay if you, if you don’t believe me, but I’m gonna do my best to prove it to you, okay? I’m gonna take care of you.”

He sits there with her, making hushing noises, repeating himself, but he doesn’t break contact. It’s ten minutes before she pulls the blankets away from her face and looks up at him with tears in her eyes. 

“Em,” he says, cause he’s got nothing else, nothing but an empty fucking place where his heart should be cause this kid with her tear-streaked face just ripped the fucking thing right out of him. 

“C’mere.”

He moves slowly, careful to give her space and time to recoil or lash out if she needs to, and he braces himself for the inevitable pain that either of those reactions will bring him. She does neither. Instead, Emma falls almost limp when he pulls her to his chest. She’s holding Bunny in one arm and her knife in the other, and Dean is careful to not to upset either as he transitions her from her nest into the cradle of his arms. He maneuvers cautiously, until Emma is settled safely against his chest and the two of them are settled comfortably within a (modified) cocoon of blankets. 

He murmurs nonsense the whole time. Well, maybe not nonsense. The things that he says come naturally to him, nothing like his earlier struggle with stilted words. He tells her that it’s okay; that she’s safe, that’s she’s gonna be fine, that he’s got her. He tells her that Cas would be so proud of her and that he sure as hell is. He says her name, over and over, like a prayer against the crown of her head, brushing his hand against her hair, rubbing soothing circles against her back. She releases the knife at some point, a little after Dean starts to sing to her, and uses her newly freed hand to hold onto the front of his shirt. She burrows her still damp face just bellow his collarbone. She’s a warm weight over his heart. 

“Is it okay if I stay with you?” he asks, and he’s surprised that his own voice sounds so gruff, as if Emma was not the only one who had been crying.

She looks up at him, her eyes half-mast, and she nods before tucking her head just beneath his chin. He pulls the blankets more firmly around them, and holds her close. They fall asleep like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry this is a bit later than expected. I just want to say thank you to all of you for taking the time to read this story, encourage it, leave such thoughtful comments, and generally be so amazing. I cannot properly express how much that means to me and how humbled I am by your support and love. 
> 
> I just want to take a moment to officially remind you that we are firmly into Season 8 territory now, which is both exciting and frustrating (I personally had more fun with the freedom Purgatory afforded me to play with the characters). The story is *not* going to follow Season 8 in an exact way (especially as we move on), but some of the plot points, character interactions, confrontations, etc, will be similar. So just, keep that in mind with whatever degree of excitement or trepidation you feel is appropriate. I know things are rocky with Sam and Dean in the story right now, but that's a reflection of the rockiness of their relationship in the beginning of Season 8, and will, eventually, be resolved (in what I hope is ultimately a much more satisfying way than was seen on the show). I'm saying this mostly because there were a few comments on the last chapter about the fact that this story has become a "Sam bashing fest" and that my attitude in that regard had driven away some readers. It is not my intention to make anyone uncomfortable, nor is it my intention to hate on Sam. I love Sam, Dean loves Sam, but the story is from Dean's POV and the last chapter took place an hour after Dean found out Sam had ditched him for a year. He has a right to be pissed off even if you and I (and eventually Dean) realize that Sam's reasons for doing what he did are more complex than at first glance. This story does have a plan. I have an outline. There is an ending. It's going to take us a while to get there and I'm happy to have any and all of you along for this ride.
> 
> Thank you again, so much for taking the time to read this story. I would love to hear your thoughts on the latest chapter. Much love until next time (ETA two weeks from today).


	27. Sunny Side

Jody wakes them just after dawn. She comes in quietly, but Dean and Emma both startle into awareness and are on their feet in a flash. Jody holds her hands up in the face of Emma’s tousle-haired menace and Dean’s not quite conscious fighting stance.

“Just wanted to wake you two sleepy heads,” she quirks an eyebrow at Dean. 

It’s a very eloquent eyebrow really. It reminds Dean—half asleep and all—that he and Sam have to hit the road. Soon. It reminds him that he hasn’t told Emma, who is currently rubbing a small fist against her eyes, this information. It very, very clearly reminds him that he needs to tell her, and, if he’s not misinterpreting Jody’s head tilt (and he doesn’t think he is) he needs to do it ‘right now, young man.’ 

“Benny’s making eggs for breakfast,” she adds, satisfied that Dean has heard her message loud and clear. 

She smiles at Emma, and Emma smiles back shyly, scuffing a bare foot against the dusty floor. 

Dean swallows and works his jaw, rubbing a tired hand against his eyes, and suddenly faced with the enormity of his task. He’s faced vampires and witches, leviathan and werewolves, rugaroos and shapeshifters and demons, hell, he’s even faced the devil himself, but there is something particularly daunting about facing his four year old daughter and telling her that he’s leaving her. Again. Right after he promised that he wouldn’t. Dread seeps into the very marrow of his bones, his throat feels tight and his palms sweat and he wants very much to go back in time to about five minutes ago when Emma was sleeping peacefully, tucked into his side, having made the foolish mistake of trusting him. 

“Thanks, Jody,” he manages with a grin that he’s sure doesn’t meet his eyes, “we’ll be right out.”

Jody offers him a sympathetic nod, gives a fortifying wave to Emma, and closes the door behind her, leaving them to get ready. 

Dean can’t bring himself to tell Emma before or after she gets dressed for the day (a dark blue sundress that Jody brought in her giant bag of child approved toys and clothing). He can’t bring himself to tell her when he reminds her that she needs to wear shoes (the only article of clothing that she seems to loathe, which, given that she’s never really had to wear shoes, Dean can kind of get, even if it also gives him the sudden and overwhelming desire to punch himself in the face). He laces her boots for her, nice and tight, to distract himself from ‘what if’ scenarios wherein he had pushed Emma out of Sam’s line of fire three years ago, or just fucking told him to stop. He talks Emma through the shoe-tying thing, rabbit ears and rabbit holes; he wonders if Emma has ever seen a bunny in real life. Emma’s frown suggests that she has no notion what he’s talking about, that her Bunny is likely the equivalent of a stuffed unicorn to her, and he wonders if there is a Purgatory metaphor he can use to teach her how to tie her shoes. He contemplates this for a full minute, then decides he’s better off taking the kid to a fucking petting zoo or a field or something so she gets the on earth reference.

Dean dresses himself quickly and efficiently while Emma goes and hides Bunny. She tucks him very carefully in the nest of blankets, making sure that he’s entirely covered. She whispers something to him before she places a pillow on top, but Dean doesn’t catch it. 

Dean is not sure exactly what possesses him to offer to do Emma’s hair. He has zero practical experience. It is probably his desire to delay the inevitable for as long as humanly possible, which should probably indicate his level desperation. Maybe it’s also, just a little bit, a desire for closeness, wanting to do something good for her, even if it’s small, before he does something tremendously fucked up. Maybe he’s afraid that, after he leaves her, the fragile peace they’ve crafted will go up in smokes. Every little inch that she’s given him, every single one, has been a fucking gift and the thought of going back to where they started—Emma refusing to look at him, refusing to touch him, treating him like a monster…he wants to have this moment, just this one more, before it all goes away. She looks small and vulnerable, and, he’s not afraid to say it in his own head, absolutely adorable, with a her hair sleep ruffled and hanging in her face, and she’s his kid, right now, she’s his, and he wants to hold on to that. 

Like most things with Emma, Dean proceeds gracelessly.

He gestures at his own hair and asks, “You want me to uh, help you get that out of your eyes?” 

Emma considers his proposition with narrowed eyes, her hands loose at her sides, and Dean struggles not to fidget or back track under her scrutiny. 

“Okay,” she says decisively, but she squints suspiciously, like she know she’s made a questionable decision, but she’s willing to ride it through to the end, and he had better not make her sorry for it. 

She hesitates to bare her neck to him, to turn her back to him, and, though she looks calm, there’s something in the hesitance of her movements—they’re slow, each one very precise, lacking the normal fluidity that she has—and the uptick in her pulse that let’s Dean know she’s a least a little bit afraid. 

“If you don’t want me to, I’m sure Jody wouldn’t—”

She shakes her head firmly, squares her shoulders, and, as if she were about to jump of the high dive, she sits in front of him, back ramrod straight, gaze fixed ahead. Dean let’s out a breath that he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

It’s his turn to hesitate now, his hands hovering just above the crown of her head, afraid to touch her, afraid to break her. He closes his eyes, breathes out through his nose, and takes the plunge.

Emma has a thick head of hair. The color has lightened; it’s more vibrant for having spent time under a real sun, for having eaten real food. The strands are fine and silky and they fall easily out of Dean’s hold as he tries to pull them into something resembling order. He uses his fingers (too thick and too clumsy for this task) to comb out some tangles, and he eventually manages something that can pass as a ponytail. It’s not the braiding that Benny does so well, or that Cas was staring to pick up—it’s way simpler, Dean doesn’t know the more complex stuff—and it’s slightly off center, but it will hold, and that will have to do. 

“Ta-da,” he says when he finishes. 

Emma looks up at him with a face that is, for what is perhaps the first time in the whole time since they found her, completely unobstructed. Her features aren’t partially hidden behind a layer of grime or the curtain of her hair. Emma, he thinks dazedly, as if from very far away, has his mouth and Sam’s ears and his mom’s chin, and Dean’s stomach plummets, like he’s on a roller coaster, his heart is pounding too fast and he realizes, very suddenly, that he’s made a huge mistake because it will be much more difficult to tell Emma the truth while she stares him right in the eye. 

He clears his throat and tries desperately to keep his voice steady.

“Let’s, ah, go see about those eggs, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't call, I don't write, and I show up two months late with a very short chapter, and I do, most humbly, ask your pardon for this. It has been a hellish two months and I have had very little time for this story. I am so very thankful for your patience and willingness to stick with me. Thank you for all of your encouragement as well. I should hopefully get quite a bit of writing done over the winter holiday and I'm genuinely looking forward to it, I've missed Dean and Emma. Much love to all of you.


	28. Consequences

Dean realizes that Sam will be joining them for breakfast at about the same time that Emma does. That is, when they walk into the kitchen and Sam looks up from where he’s sitting at the table. Emma stops so suddenly that Dean nearly trips over her. 

Sam rises quickly and awkwardly to his feet almost knocking over his chair in the process. Emma’s eyes flash gold and the skin around them turns a brilliant crimson, but she’s otherwise still as a statue. Dean recovers from his very near fall and, on autopilot, moves to stand between Sam and Emma. 

“Don’t let him hurt me,” she said once, “Please, don’t.”

Her words echo loud and clear. They hang in a cloud around Dean, muffling everything else. Dean doesn’t consciously put himself between his daughter and his brother, but he does it without a moment’s hesitation. No one hurts her. Especially not Sam. He throws an arm out, shielding Emma, keeping her back. Sam blinks at them. 

They all stand frozen like that in a strange familial tableau. Dean can hear the too fast beating of his own heart like a full percussion section pounding away between his ears. Jody gets to her feet while they all stand there staring, carefully setting her coffee down on the table, ready to play referee. Benny comes up behind Sam silently, a frying pan in his hands. It’s still serving its purpose as a kitchen utensil, but, if Benny’s expression is anything to go by, he’s clearly on the verge of turning it into a murder weapon should that prove necessary. 

No one moves, no one even breathes. Then, Jody clears her throat, and Sam startles as if he’d forgotten that anyone else was in the room. He shakes his head to clear it, shuffles his feet slightly, glances at Jody, and straightens his spine. Dean doesn’t budge an inch.

Sam clears his throat, “Uh, good morning.”

He shifts his gaze from Dean to the small girl behind him, “Hi, Emma.”

He waves awkwardly and offers her a small smile. 

Dean frowns and looks down at Emma to gauge her response. Her eyes are so wide, that it would be comical in any other circumstance. She blinks slowly at Sam with a look of complete and utter befuddlement on her face: like the boogey man crawled out from under the bed and suddenly started giving out Christmas presents. She’s got her knife in a white knuckled grip. She looks up at Dean as if to say, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this dude?” and Dean honestly doesn’t have an answer.  
Jody apparently does. 

“Emma,” she says, moving very slowly as she comes around the table, so that Emma won’t be frightened and run away, “this is your Uncle Sam.”

She crouches down at Emma’s height, shooting Dean a pointed look as she does so, maybe to make sure that he won’t lash out and push her away like a rabid mama bear. While Jody repositions herself next to Emma, Benny moves incrementally closer to Sam, frying pan at the ready. When he catches Dean’s eye, he shrugs slightly, just a tiny lift of his shoulders, a silent, “Whatever you need, brother.” 

Jody places a gentle, would be comforting arm around Emma’s shoulders. Emma doesn’t relax at all. Her whole body is stiff as a board, but she does move incrementally backwards into Jody’s hold.  
“Sam wants to eat with us if that’s okay with you.”

Sam visibly swallows and tries to look as non-threatening as possible, a difficult task for a six and half foot tall trained killer.

“If that’s not okay though,” Jody continues, her voice soft but firm, and her eyes locked on Sam, “he’ll leave, or we can eat back in your room. It’s up to you, okay? You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Jody soothingly rubs a hand against Emma’s shoulder. Emma still doesn’t move. She’s more statue than living, breathing child. She just glares fixedly at Sam, and Sam squirms under her scrutiny. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, clenches a fist; his eyes dart from Emma to the floor, to the table, to Jody, back to the floor. He doesn’t make eye contact with Dean at all, which is probably for the best since Dean doesn’t know how the fuck he should read this situation. Benny, at least, seems just as confused as Dean. Jody’s whole attention remains unwaveringly on the little girl in the circle of her arms. She spares Dean neither the time nor the attention necessary to explain this particular unforeseen turn of events.  
Eventually, Emma finally unlocks her gaze from Sam. Dean expects her to bolt back to the bedroom where it’s warm and safe and secluded, where she can hide beneath her blankets and hold her Bunny close, hush at him and sing soft songs, and protect them both from danger. He expects her to launch forward, knife at the ready to defend her territory and her little makeshift tribe with her life. What he absolutely does not expect is for Emma to turn her face up to him, a frown on her forehead and uncertainty in her eyes, clearly seeking guidance. 

Guidance from Dean: Dean, whose cost-benefit ratio is more skewed than anyone he’s ever met (and he’s met some fucked up lunatics with crazy priorities); Dean, who doesn’t know shit about being a good dad; Dean, who can’t keep his fucking kid alive for more than a few hours; Dean, who is a shit judge of character, who uses shitty coping mechanisms, who has gotten everyone he’s ever cared about killed; Dean, who has chosen his brother at every single turn and who chose his brother over his daughter when he was at a very similar juncture just a few years ago. 

Emma looks up at him, with wide, questioning eyes. Dean isn’t completely delusional. He knows that she’s not looking to him like he looked to his dad. He thought his dad was fucking Superman, knew all the answers, always knew what to do. Emma is not delusional enough to expect all of life’s answers (from Dean least of all), she doesn’t think for a second that he knows everything. That’s another loss to mourn on another day. The way she looks at Dean is nothing like the way she looks at Cas (as if he hung the moon and all the stars in the sky just for her) or at Benny (with complete affection and respect). No, she looks at Dean like he’s a shipmate out at sea with her in a storm, or a strange, wartime bedfellow bogged down in a muddy trench, like he’s someone who can maybe help her decide which way is best because he knows what it’s like to be scared and alone and faced with an uncertain choice. There’s an understanding there, trust born of uncertainty and extremity. His eyes burn and his stomach drops. Dean is not qualified to give out sage advice and fucking life lessons at the drop of a hat. Fuck, he doesn’t even know what that would look like. How to run a credit card scam and not get caught? How to hot wire a car? How much you can drink before you land yourself in a hospital? Those are not things that he wants to give to any child, let alone one that is specifically his. 

He clears his throat, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Em.”  
She blinks at him, and he, very slowly, kneels down next to her, his knees creaking ominously in the process. Emma presses her back more firmly into Jody. 

“It’s your call,” he promises in a whisper like it’s just between them (even though he knows Jody and Sam and Benny are all listening closely), “You gotta feel safe. That’s the most important. Okay?”  
Emma nods very, very slowly, like she’s mentally processing a very strange and complex concept. What is safe, really, when you live your whole life being afraid and on the run? Dean thinks, sadly, that Emma has probably never felt safe, not once, in her whole life. All the fucked-upedness of his childhood aside, Dean knew what safe felt like: it was his mom tucking him into bad and kissing his forehead; it was his dad showing up to scare the bad guys away, it was Sammy snoring softly in the next bed. Emma, she’s never had that: her mom gave her away, her dad was the bad guy, he let the bad guys get her, he let her die. She had no frame of reference for what it felt like to be safe until the day that Cas came in and saved her. Cas was Emma’s ‘safe.’ Cas was the angel watching out for her, the one to tuck her in and keep the monsters at bay. Cas was the one who protected her when no one else did. Now, Emma doesn’t have Cas, she has Dean. She has Dean because Cas trusted Dean to protect Emma; because Cas sacrificed himself so that Dean and Emma would have a chance to make it out, if not to somewhere safe, than at least to somewhere safer than the place they’d been. Maybe that’s why Emma looks to Dean now: because Cas trusted him enough to send Emma with him, because he’s the closest thing that she’s got to Cas right now, when the scariest person Emma’s ever met is standing right across from her. It strengthens Dean’s resolve somehow.

Emma’s mouth pulls tight, like she’s biting the inside of her cheek, and Dean momentarily worries that she’s cutting into the tender flesh with fangs instead of molars. She considers Dean closely. She looks at Sam and she looks at Dean and then at Jody. She squares her tiny shoulders, realigns her fingers on her blade and nods, tightly, at Sam. 

Sam smiles at her and some of the stiffness leaves his posture. Dean exhales after what feels like hours, and Jody smiles and runs a reassuring hand against Emma’s hair and back. Benny disappears back into the kitchen before Sam even notices that he was there, presumably to make and serve breakfast as if nothing had happened. 

“You can tap out,” Dean confides, “any time you don’t like it, and you wanna go back to your room, you just gotta let me know.”

She nods as she climbs into a chair—one that puts her across from Jody and next to Dean. Sam resumes his seat with a forced joviality. 

Dean’s aware that they eggs are delicious, but he has trouble fully appreciating how awesome they are, too busy watching his brother and his daughter. The former of whom is carrying out a conversation about trans-dimensional portals with Jody in a falsely cheerful voice, the latter of whom is glaring at the former with a menacing scowl, twirling a knife between her small, lithe fingers as she does so. 

“Cher,” Benny chides from where he sits, lounging back slightly, next to Sam, a living breathing buffer zone between him and Emma, “that food’s gonna get cold if you don’t hurry up there.”

Emma begrudgingly scoops a forkful into her mouth, glaring at Sam while she chews violently. Dean feels as though he might be on the verge of hysterics—there’s a strange desire to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but also the sense that, if he starts, he might not be able to stop.

It’s peaceable, or, at least, as peaceable as it’s gonna get given who’s sitting at the table. Dean should probably consider himself lucky that no one has been impaled…yet. He’s tense throughout the meal. It’s weird really. Nothing could be more normal than sitting across from Sam, scarfing down food before hitting the road; it should put him at ease, but all it does is put him on edge. The sound of forks and knives, the chewing, Sam’s presence, even the smell of breakfast makes Dean tense, makes his knee bounce incessantly, his fingers clench and unclench around his cutlery, his hackles rise. 

Sam and Jody carry on a conversation with forced smiles that at some point have turn genuinely animated, both darting occasional looks at Emma and Dean. Benny tries to engage with Emma directly—it’s apparently his turn to play parent—he reminds her that she needs to eat, watches her like a hawk, and provides a solid wall separating her from danger at the possible expense of his own safety. Sam and Benny ignore each other completely except for all the ways they don’t—each is aware that they’re sitting next to an enemy—Benny deals with this by behaving as nonchalantly as possible, and Sam does so by turning his back on Benny and pretending he’s not there. Dean is left to watch everyone anxiously, ready to jump out of his skin. 

He doesn’t really remember eating his eggs, and he’s surprised when the meal is over. Sam looks around hesitantly, Jody clears her throat, and Benny smiles somewhat dangerously. Emma is the first to get up: she hops onto her feet and considers the adults with narrowed eyes. Sam clears his throat. 

“I guess we should get going,” he says, standing.

Shit. 

Emma looks at Dean with bright eyes.

“Dean,” Jody starts, accusingly, exasperatedly, “Did you not tell her?”  
Dean should face her disappointment like a man, but he can’t look away from Emma’s face, somewhere between confused and distrustful. He gets to his feet, slowly, palms open and entreating; Emma takes a step backwards, her knife rising into a defensive position. 

“Uh, Sam and I are gonna go on a trip for a few days—”

Emma’s face does something he’s never seen it do before. She doesn’t Hulk out, she doesn’t even move, she stands absolutely perfectly still, but it’s not like earlier, when she’d been a solid, steady statue; somehow, suddenly she seems light, a feather that could easily be blown away. There’s a fundamental shift in her expression, her whole face just shuts down, it’s like she pulls the door closed on her thoughts and emotions, everything gets pulled tight, locked down, the shutters fastened and bolted against the storm. She’s completely blank, empty. It’s terrifying. 

“—we’re gonna be back as soon as—”

She blinks once, and she turns and runs, fucking sprints, back into the house.

“—shit, Emma!”

“You didn’t tell her you were leaving?” Sam asks, from up on his fucking high horse.

“Dean,” Jody chastens.

Benny knows Dean well enough not to say anything at all, but Dean can practically feel him shaking his head in a mixture of pity and disappointment behind his back.

Dean ignores all of it and runs after his kid. 

She slams the door, he hears it, and it skids to a stop in front of it. It’s locked.

“Emma,” he pounds on the door, “Emma, open up.”

No response.

“Emma!” he tries again, “Emma, come on, open the door.”

He knocks again, leaning his forehead against the wood of the door, the grains dig into his skin, “I need to talk to you.”

Fuck. He is so fucking fucked. She’s never looked at him like that before. Her eyes had not been so blank since she had—

“Emma, please…I’m sorry.”

He slides down the wall. 

“We need to go. This is gonna help us get Cas, and I’ll,” he swallows hard, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

He’s lying to her. She knows it. He knows it. It’s bullshit. He’s shit.

Jody comes up on Dean in the hallway next to a locked door. She shakes her head and shoos him away.  
It’s she and Benny who manage, after fifteen minutes of coaxing, get Emma to open the door. Fifteen minutes while he and Sam stew in awkward silence. Sam regards him with judgmental eyes the whole time. Dean paces restlessly.

“Dude, you didn’t even tell her you were gonna go?”

“Just shut up, Sam.”

When Jody carries Emma out in her arms, her face is still blank. She looks at Dean without even seeing him. Like he’s invisible, like he’s nothing. Maybe he’s not. It still hurts. 

She doesn’t speak when they load up the Impala. She doesn’t speak when the grown-ups talk around her. She doesn’t respond when Dean tries again and again to explain.

Sam frowns, it’s a sympathetic frown, “We really need to go if we’re gonna get there before Kevin moves again.”  
Of course Sam wants to leave. He wants to get away from this house and these people (except maybe Jody). He wants to get back to the normal life that Dean interrupted. He wants it to all be over. His reasons don’t change the fact that he’s right. He knows it and Dean knows it. Dean jingles the keys and bites his lip, watching Emma sit and stare at nothing. 

Benny offers his hand, which Dean takes, and pulls him into a hug. He thumps Dean on the back.

“Take care, brother.”

“You too.”

They pull apart and Benny squeezes Dean’s shoulder, “We’ll watch out for her; you just hurry back.”  
Dean nods tightly. 

“Jody,” he says, “thank you.”

Jody gives him a hug and steps back, peering at him intently, “Be safe. You have people who need you.”

He kneels down next to Emma. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t blink, she doesn’t so much as twitch.

“I’m—” he clears his throat, “you take care of yourself, you hear? I’m gonna…I’m gonna be back as soon as I can, okay?”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at an indeterminate point in the corner. 

“I—” he doesn’t know what to say. What can he possibly say that will make this better? What can he possible tell her? She won’t even look at him. His throat is too full, his chest is too tight, breathing is suddenly impossibly difficult. 

He shakes his head, clears his throat, “Be good.”

He reaches a hand to touch her hair and she flinches away. Dean recoils as if he’s been burned. He rubs a hand against his neck, gets to his feet. 

The three of them stand in the doorway when Dean and Sam get into the Impala. The engine rumbles to life and the radio plays and it sounds like home, but it doesn’t feel like it. He looks into the rear-view mirror. Jody waves, Benny raises a hand. Emma just stands there, sunlight glinting off of her hair, her face still as stone. Dean puts the car into drive, tries to focus on the road ahead and not the people he’s leaving behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! I hope that the end of the year is treating all of you brilliantly. I would like to wish all of you a very happy new year. Thank you for taking the time to read this story. Thank you, too, for leaving such amazing words of encouragement and kindness and analysis. You're all amazing and I appreciate you so much. I hope that this newest chapter is enjoyable. Comments are always appreciated. Much love to all of you! xo


	29. Where Do We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some brotherly angst, man-pain, more angst, etc.

A series of conversations on the road between Louisiana and Michigan:

“So, what was her name?”

“What?” 

Sam stops pointedly staring out the window, and Dean redoubles his grip on the steering wheel. It’s the first either of them have spoken in the hour since they left the house—left Jody and Benny, left Emma.

“There was a girl, right? You give up hunting, quit the family business, go ‘find yourself.’ Was there a girl?”

Sam doesn’t say anything; he works his jaw and glares straight ahead at the highway unfolding before them, no end in sight. 

It’s answer enough, in its own way.

“Huh,” Dean purses his lips, shakes his head minutely.

They drive in silence for five more miles before:

“Her name was Amelia,” Sam murmurs.

“Amelia.”

“Yeah.”

Over the next half hour Sam tells him. About running away and hitting a dog, about the veterinary hospital, wanting to just save one fucking thing. About sticking around, doing odd jobs at a motel, stumbling upon Amelia again. Her not taking his shit. About how they bonded over grief, loss, loneliness. How they helped one another to heal. He offers up snapshots of domesticity, a semblance of peace and stability that make Dean feel relieved and rabid at the same time. He tells Dean about sleeping through the night for the first time in months, about being able to face the light of day without wanting to scream, or, at least, having someone to help shoulder the burden of living. 

Dean grinds his teeth, keeps his hands on the wheel, sometimes white knuckled and aching, sometimes slacking loose with something like sympathy, understanding. Every time he glances over at his brother, Sam is staring into the distance, a faraway look in his eyes and a line of tension between his brows, his hands in fists on his lap. 

Dean’s thoughts shift, turn in upon themselves. “He should have looked for me” lashes against a strong, unprompted empathy. Years, hell, another lifetime ago, he had stumbled, out of his mind with grief, onto Lisa’s doorstep. She took him in, fucked up beyond all reason, waking with nightmares, crying when he thought no one could hear him, drunk half the time because he couldn’t face a world without Sam sober. She took him in and she helped him. It was different: Sam had made him promise not to look, not to find a way out, and Dean had still, whenever he could, worked to find a way to save him. Sam hadn’t even tried. Visceral anger wars against the memory of his head on Lisa’s shoulder, her hand comfortingly laid against his hair, soft words in his ear when he felt like he just couldn’t do it anymore. Could he really begrudge Sam something similar? A warm embrace, a kind heart. Could he really forgive him for living comfortably and warm while Dean rotted away, while Dean and Cas and Emma all fucking rotted away?

Sam talks about a birthday cake, about a house and a dog, about a husband back from the grave. His voice is halting when he describes a choice, a promise, about Dean’s call and a duffle bag packed in the dead of night. 

By the time Sam finishes, trails off into silence, Dean’s jaw is clenched, and his fingers are clutched so tightly around the steering wheel that he’s lost feeling in his fingertips. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean grunts out.

Sam snorts as if he doesn’t believe Dean’s words, and maybe he’s right not to.

“Yeah, well, you needed to know,” Sam finally says, “I didn't just drop out, Dean. I found something. Something I've... never had all my life, and I want that. I had that. When this is over…I want out.”

There is a moment where Dean swears he sees red. Bright and blinding and clearer than he’s seen it since he was knee deep in Purgatory, cutting a swathe through rugaroos to find Cas.

“And, what? You think I want a lifetime membership?”

Sam frowns at him, “Honestly? Yeah.”

Dean works his throat, “Well, I don’t.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’”

Sam frowns like he wants to pry, but Dean turns up the radio, effectively ending the conversation. Both are surprised by Dean’s comment and its implications, but Dean is angry, confused, and he’s sure as fuck not ready to talk about it. Sam goes back to staring out the window, Dean hits the gas, and neither speaks again for the rest of the state.

*

“So.”

Dean ignores Sam in favor of considering his menu. It’s pretty typical roadside diner fare, but food is still something of a novelty, and he wants to consider his options. Double bacon cheeseburger sounds good. Dean looks up, and, though Sam is sitting right across from him, right where he should be, right where he (almost) always is, there’s a drop in his stomach, sudden and sharp, like he missed a step going downstairs, and he realizes that he’s looking for Emma, that it’s weird to not have her, to not be able to check on her. If Emma were here, he’d be getting broccoli instead of french-fries to set some kind of example, if Emma were here, she’d be sitting, focused and hyper-alert across the table, coloring on her placemat or eyeing the other patrons with a wary warrior’s eye, she’d look at Dean while she thought he was reading his menu and she’d try to hide a smile when he made a funny face over his veggies. If Emma were here…but she’s not. She’s with Jody and Benny, where it’s safe for her, where she’s not afraid of her caregivers because they’ve never hurt her. He pictures them clearly as they stood together in the doorway, the three of them clustered close, growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, looking more like a proper family than anything he could ever give her…

Sam’s talking and Dean tries to tune in. 

“What?”

Sam frowns as if Dean just proved his point for him, and he’s more frustrated than ever. Dean is too tired, too strung out for this, whatever this is. 

“Dude, look at you. You've still got that look. You're shaky. You're on edge. What was it like?”

“Purgatory?”

Dean snorts through his nose and shakes his head, looking out the window. There’s a mom tucking her baby into a car-seat, while two little boys run around the minivan. Their lives are so fucking simple out there. So impossibly far away.

“It was peachy, Sam,” Dean snarks, “fucking vacation.”

“Dean—”

“—piña coladas and little umbrellas—”

“—Dean—”

“What the fuck do you want me say, Sam?”

Sam’s hard core frowning now, it makes him look ten years older and twenty years younger at the same time. 

“The truth.”

Dean fiddles with his straw wrapper. Sam waits and watches.  
“The truth?” Dean works his jaw, worries his lower lip, “I been to hell, Sam, and this wasn’t that much better.

“Hell made sense. That’s what you tell yourself, you know? That it makes sense. You’re there for a reason. That’s what makes it okay. If I was there, it was so that you weren’t. You were out, you were okay. And, fuck you know, I was supposed to be there and I could do it if I knew that it was because I deserved it. It’s what made it okay for them to tear me apart day, after day after day, hell, that’s what made it okay to carve into the fuckers around you, they deserved it too, every single sorry son of a bitch on the rack deserved to be there. Made a fucked up kind of sense, all the sinners getting punished, punishing each other, saves someone else getting their hands dirty…”

Sam doesn’t speak, and Dean can’t look at him, just keeps staring at the family out the window, the mom rounding up her little boys, trying to get them buckled into their seats.

“Purgatory was like that for a while,” he continues, “It was bloody. Messy. 31 flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties, most days felt like 360-degree combat. But there was something about being there. Felt pure. They were monsters, they weren’t human, just had to cut my way through, find Cas, find a way out, or wait till you found a way to spring us,” he grimaces, that last one had worked out so well, “Been fighting monsters my whole life, I was pretty damn good at the job, it wasn’t that hard, fuck, I didn’t have to hide what I was good at, it was my time to fucking shine,” his mouth twists into a hard smile, stretched tight and painful, “Dad, couldn’t have come up with a better training ground if he tried.” 

He laughs but it sounds broken and distant, even to himself. Sam doesn’t say a word, but Dean can feel the weight of his eyes, the stare heavy and abrasive. 

Outside, the minivan pulls away, and Dean’s left looking at an empty parking space.

“What changed?” Sam asks finally, when Dean’s been quiet too long.

Dean glances at him, a quick dart of the eyes, and then down at his hands, he’s ripped the wrapper into pieces without even realizing it.

“Met Benny, found Cas,” the memories of both are sharp and clear in his mind, probably always will be, “Cas found Emma…things, they, ah, weren’t so simple anymore.”

He wasn’t just a hunter left to fend for himself in monster heaven. He wasn’t a killing machine, wasn’t daddy’s blunt little instrument, wasn’t Alistair’s star pupil, wasn’t Michael’s vessel, or even Sam’s brother, or maybe he was all of those things, but none of it mattered because he was also a father, and he had to get his kid out of hell. It threw a wrench into his logic, the logic of the place, the logic of the universe, of Dean’s universe. Emma was an innocent. She was a child, she’d done nothing wrong, but be born to the wrong fucking people and get killed for it. She didn’t deserve to suffer the way she did. Then there was fucking Cas, using Purgatory like his latest greatest form of self-flagellation, and Benny slowly, gradually, steadily becoming Dean’s best friend, looking out for Emma as if she were his own, having Cas’ back and Dean’s back, not just cause he wanted a way out, but because he actually gave a shit, which is more than could be said for most of the humans that Dean’s known in his life. It shook Dean to his core, and here he is months later, fucked up, sitting across from his brother, trying to explain something that he has trouble making sense of himself, let alone for someone else. 

“I see.”

Dean wants to challenge that: what the fuck does Sam see? What does his domesticated fucking ass know about anything? He can take his smug, all knowing attitude, and his sympathy, and his bullshit and just shove them straight up his—

But the waitress brings their food before Dean can say any of that. He refocuses his anger and confusion into demolishing his cheeseburger and fries (the flavors exploding rich and bright and fucking out of this world amazing in his mouth) and they finish the meal in silence.

*

The motel room is the unique blend of garish and kitschy that has signaled “home” or at least “rest” to Dean for most of his life. After the muted colors and quasi-perpetual darkness of Purgatory, the bright lime green of the bedspreads is jarring, the smell of pine-sol and cheap air freshener makes his nose itch, like he needs to sneeze, the artificial shit cloying, and so different from the scents of blood and earth and rot. He’s twitchy, ready to get back on the road almost as soon as he drops his duffle on the floor. 

He’s been texting Jody all day. Asking for status updates, checking in almost obsessively. When they stop for the night after driving as long as possible, Sam takes the first shower and Dean goes out to the darkened parking lot to actually call. 

Yes, Emma is fine. No, she hasn’t spoken since he left. Dean, it isn’t your fault, you’re doing what you need to do. You’re doing the best you can. She’ll be okay. I’m sorry, no, she won’t come to the phone. 

Benny tells him not to worry. That Emma is well looked after, but, “she’s hurtin’, brother, she’s confused…doesn’t like you being gone…worried cause of you goin’ off with Sam…thinks he’ll hurt you…already lost, Cas…can’t blame her…”

He imagines her clearly, sitting in the corner, wordless, vacant, staring into space, doing simple tasks that don’t require her to engage with anyone else. He remembers sitting in the corner himself at her age, silent, abandoned, mother dead, father on a hunt, left with Pastor Jim, waiting for his dad to come back, not sure if he would. 

This fucking sucks. It sucks so fucking hard. 

“Tell her…just tell her that I’m sorry, that I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Of course,” Benny promises, “Take care of yourself.”

After they hand up, he turns the phone over and over between his hands, considers throwing it in frustration, but he promised he would call again, first thing in the morning, so he pockets it instead and goes back inside. 

Sam is waiting for him, sitting on the bed with his Fabio locks still damp from the shower. 

Dean perches on the edge of other mattress, rests his elbows on his knees and drags a hand against his forehead. His head is pounding and his eyes are sore; he feels like he could sleep for years but there’s a restlessness deep in his bones, itching at his skin, that won’t let him. 

“So are we gonna talk about it?”

Dean digs his fingers deep into his eye sockets, massaging hard enough that he sees spots. He inhales deeply through his nose, and blinks his eyes open against the harshness of the light in the room.

“Talk about what, Sam?”

“About what you said earlier.”

“Gonna have to be more specific.”

“About wanting out.”

Oh.

That.

Dean can’t keep the exhaustion out of his voice, “I have a feeling we’re going to.”

The sarcasm rolls off of Sam like he’s made of fucking Teflon, “Were you serious?”

Dean’s fists clench, so does his jaw, the headache he’d been fighting off pounds against his skull. When he speaks, the words are uttered through gritted teeth.

“About not wanting to raise Emma like we were? Yeah, Sam, I was serious.”

Sam’s face contorts into some weird expression that Dean can’t read, it mostly looks like he’s constipated. 

“Just say it, Sam.”

Sam looks like he’s biting the bullet (at least, Dean’s not alone in not wanting to have this conversation—it’s small consolation), “So, that’s it, you’re going to retire and get a car seat for the Impala, sign Emma up for kindergarten.”

Dean barks a bitter laugh, thinks of nightmares and silences and an obsidian dagger in a tiny fist, “I think we might need to work up to kindergarten.”

“Dean, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Have you even considered what this would mean?”

Every single fucking day since we found her. “No, Sam, you’re right, I haven’t. She looked so damn cute like a feral Oliver fucking Twist, and I’m allergic to cats, so Cas and I decided hey, maybe we should keep her, what’s the difference really?” 

Sam rolls his eyes, “That’s not what I mean, Dean.”

Dean practically bares his teeth, “Then what did you mean, Sam?”

Sam takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck, gestures expansively to the side like he can conjure his answer into existence without actually speaking it, “She’s not human, Dean—”

“—she’s my kid, Sam—” he snarls.

“—you know next to nothing about raising an Amazon, let alone whatever Emma is,” he continues, “what if she wakes up tomorrow twenty years old? What if she has to complete her initiation ritual? What if she tries to kill you? What then?”

“Then we’ll fucking figure it out.”

Sam sighs, long suffering, “This is your life we’re talking about, Dean.”

“You’re right, Sam it’s my life, she’s my kid, and while you’ve been living next door to the fucking Cleavers, she and I have been fighting to stay alive in fucking hell.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“Yeah, I fucking am, because neither of us would’ve been there if it weren’t for you.”

“That’s not fair, Dean.”

“Oh, I think it’s plenty fair.”

“I killed her to save you, Dean!”

Dean laughs but it’s completely devoid of humor, it’s sharp and biting and it hurts, “You know what, Sam? Why don’t you stow the holier than thou fucking bullshit? We both know that the only reason you shot her was because I killed your little girlfriend. You were pissed at me and you killed her to get back at me.”

Sam looks like Dean’s slapped him, “She was trying to kill you!”

“She hesitated, Sam!” he shouts, “She was a fucking day old and brainwashed by a fucking cult and you killed her in cold blood because you were mad at me.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam mutters, “Is that what you think?”

“That’s what I know.”

They glower at one another in silence: Sam stricken and Dean’s face a storm. 

Eventually, Sam’s expression softens, crumples. 

“Maybe,” he starts, “maybe I messed up…with Emma.”

Dean’s jaw ticks, “Ya think?”

“But, Dean, I didn’t know that she was in Purgatory,” he continues, eyes wide and entreating, “I didn’t know you were in Purgatory, and…”

“And what, Sam?” Dean barks, sick of the merry-go-round, ready to get off back onto steady ground.

Sam slumps slightly, looking suddenly exhausted, suddenly older. He’s almost recognizable as that little kid that came to Dean with scraped knees and stuffy noses and wanted nothing more than to stay in one place for a little while, just a little while. Something inside of Dean recoils, painfully aware of the fact that he never did get that, no matter how much he wished for it, painfully aware that he often got the exact opposite and worse, over and over again.

“I was afraid,” he admits, softly and tiredly. Dean wants to interject, jump in with some sarcastic comment about how terrifying suburbia must have been for the boy who grew up with wet dreams of white picket fences, but Sam’s expression is so harrowed, so weary, that the words die in his throat.

“Dean, the last time you—,” Sam’s jaw works and he takes a deep breath before he continues, “the last time I lost you, Dean…I fucking went off the reservation.

“I did everything, everything I could to bring you back, and—” the lines of his face seem sharper somehow, guilt and shame writ large upon his countenance, a weight no man should have to bear, but Sam manages to shoulder every day. Dean knows something about that. Sam’s enormous shoulders hunch and he gestures expansively to the side, hesitating, and Dean’s left to fill in the blanks.

“And Ruby.”

Sam snorts, scathingly, as if Ruby was the least of his sins, and, to be fair, in hindsight, she probably was.

“And Lucifer,” he continues, “and the apocalypse, and basically everything shitty that’s happened since.”

Dean swallows and a familiar sorrow twists in his gut, a familiar wish that he could just take all of Sam’s grief away, take it on himself if need be. It’s a balm (however temporary) against the anger that’s been boiling just beneath the surface since he found his brother. 

“I couldn’t do that again, I couldn’t be that again, Dean,” he entreats, his eyes shining with unshed tears, “I thought you were dead, you and Cas and Bobby, my whole family, and I was so fucking scared of what I would do to get you back. I just—I couldn’t…I tried so hard not to—” 

Tried to shy away from temptation: from grimoires and spell work, from crossroads demons and Crowley, from angels and reapers and the whole fucking lot of it because he was scared, scared that he would break the world to bring back his brother. Dean swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

“—and when I met Amelia it just, it just seemed like a fresh start, like maybe you’d want that for me…” Sam takes a ragged breath, “I’m not sorry that I found her, Dean, I’m not, but I—I am sorry…I’m sorry for leaving you—I—”

Suddenly, Dean can’t take it anymore.

“Stop, Sam, just,” his voice is rough, strained with conflicting emotion, “stop…I—” he works his jaw, searching for words, groping for something that will make sense, for anything that will guide him out of this, “I’m pissed, Sam, I’m not gonna lie about it…The last year—” he shakes his head, clears away the screams and the growls that populate his nightmares, the stench of rot and filth, the darkness and the fear, Emma’s wide eyes, the echo of Cas’ voice, the shadow of his touch, pushing him away, trusting him with Emma, “—you have no idea, what it was like, Sam.”

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean makes a sharp, abortive motion with his hand, effectively silencing him, “and I’m—I’m not ready to talk about it, all of it, not yet,” maybe not ever hoovers unspoken behind his words, “but I…shit, I get it, man, I get why you didn’t look.”

“Dean, I’m so—”

Again, Dean shakes his head, forestalling Sam’s speech, “I’m not ready to forgive you, Sam, I’m just…I’m not, but I—I get it. You, ah, you made the right call. I get that I just, I need time to get that.”

Sam sniffs and straightens his spine, nods sharply, “Take the time you need, man.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They stare at each other for a minute in the shadow of things spoken and things unspoken.

Sam clears his throat, “So, um, where do we go from here?”

Dean snorts, “Well, you should probably go to sleep; you look like shit.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean smirks. There’s something to be said for the familiarity of heckling his brother to diffuse the tension. 

“And tomorrow, we go get ourselves a prophet and try to find our way out of this fucking mess.”

“How will we do that?”

“Hell if I know,” he shrugs, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Great.”

*

The next morning, they hit the road again after (reasonably delicious) waffles and coffee. It’s a sunny day, clear skies on the horizon, a solid set on the local rock station, and about two hours left before they stage a possibly catastrophic rescue attempt. 

“So she’s still not talking to you, huh?”

Dean’s fingers grip the wheel hard, and he has to work to loosen his grip. He wonders idly if he’s going to have such a visceral reaction every time Sam mentions Emma. It send him from placid and idle to raging and protective in about point two seconds. Sam doesn’t mean anything by it, or, rather, he doesn’t mean anything bad, he’s genuinely concerned, curious, whatever, but Emma’s name on the lips of her killer (because where Emma is concerned, that’s what Sam is: not Dean’s brother, not his partner, not his best friend, he’s the man who killed his daughter and told him to shake it off because ‘she wasn’t his, not really’ like she was nothing) and he wants to punch Sam, wants to break his nose, leave his lip bloody, wants to throw him headfirst into Purgatory and see how he holds up for three years. He has to swallow that down, inhale, and count to ten, try to will away the violence and the anger and the red creeping into the corners of his vision. 

“No,” his voice his sharp, even if his expression is (admittedly forcibly) placid. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean tries not to picture Emma’s face when he told her that he was leaving, the despair, the betrayal, quickly swallowed up by blankness; it turns his stomach, ties his insides into knots, “I can’t exactly blame her.”

Sam hums noncommittally.

Dean shoots him a look, “I promised her I wouldn’t leave, and about five seconds later hit the road with you. Not exactly father of the year material.”

“You’re doing the best you can, Dean.”

Dean glares at the highway, “It’s not good enough.”

They drive in silence for another few miles listening to Crosby, Stiles, Nash, and Young, watching the scenery, and remembering all the shitty things that happened to them as kids, all the things they excused as their dad ‘doing the best he could.’ It doesn’t exactly paint a pretty picture. Dean’s childhood basically provided him with the playbook of how not to be a dad. So far, he’s living up to the legacy. 

“What about you?” Dean asks with forced levity, trying to dispel a particularly painful memory of their dad missing Chistmas, leaving Sam and Dean alone in the cold.

“What about me?” Sam sounds uncertain.

“You talk to your girl?” Dean isn’t actually sure that he wants to know the answer, but he’s trying: trying to move forward, trying to fix all the shit that’s broken between them, trying to think about Sam’s early retirement as a good thing, not a fundamental betrayal. If trying to talk to Sam comes with the added bonus of distracting himself from what a fuck up father he is, he’ll consider it a bonus.

“Ah,” Sam looks suddenly shifty, “no, I, ah, haven’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he clears his throat and he adopts a disturbingly familiar air. Dean recognizes as the one he wore when he told him that he ditched the phones. It doesn’t exactly bode well for them, “what exactly am I supposed to tell her, ‘Hey, Amelia, sorry I snuck out in the middle of the night, my dead brother’s back from Purgatory, and we’re on a mission to go find a prophet who got kidnapped by the King of Hell on my watch.’?”

“Well, I wouldn’t phrase it exactly like that, maybe, you know, cushion the blow a bit.”

“Ha fucking ha, Dean.”

Sam stares out the window like a moody teenager or some reincarnated Romantic poet. 

“She doesn’t know, does she?”

Sam sighs, “No.”

“You know how fucking stupid that is, right?” Dean’s voice is calm, but the ever present anger, resentment, rises to the surface, ready to snap. Christ. Even Dean hadn’t been that stupid. The year he left, lived with Lisa and Ben, he was on high fucking alert. He didn’t set foot out of that house without checking the wards and the sigils which were laid three feet deep in every fucking direction; he couldn’t fucking sleep unless he double checked every single one. He put guns in their hands and knives under their mattresses and holy water in their sprinkler system and it still hadn’t been enough. 

“I was trying to protect her,” Sam grumbles. The poor fucker might actually even believe that. 

“You know that’s fucking bull shit, right?” Dean chokes on a laugh, “Any time we try to fucking ‘protect’ people by keeping them in the dark, they end up dead or worse.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just glares out the window.

“Look at what happened to mom, to Jess, you want me to keep going?” He really hopes Sam says no because he doesn’t think that he can actually talk about Lisa and Ben.

“No.”

“No,” Dean repeats, secure in the fact that Sam at least knows he’s been a fucking tool, “I can’t fucking believe you, man.”

“I was trying to do the right thing, Dean.”

“Well you should fucking try doing the right thing by letting that poor girl know what the hell she’s gotten herself into.”

Sam looks stricken, and Dean feels remorse somewhere beneath the all the rage and resentment.

“Sam, seriously,” he clears his throat, “you, ah, care about this girl? You gotta tell her. People who get, ah, involved with us, they get a giant, ‘come kill me’ sign free of charge. You want to be with her, man, you gotta come clean about this shit.”

Sam works his jaw, “What if she doesn’t believe me?”

Dean thinks of Cassie suddenly: the look of anger and disbelief on her face before she threw him out, how much it had hurt. 

“Then you have two options: you do some hoodoo and make her believe you, or sneak in one night, throw some hex bags into the walls, and hope for the best.”

Sam snorts and shakes his head.

“I’m serious, man, she deserves to know what the fuck she’s in for,” he glances over at Sam, who very much looks like he would rather throw himself bodily from a moving car than have this conversation and, worst of all, be rejected, Dean redoubles his grip on the wheel, “, and you, you, ah, deserve someone who actually gets what the fuck you’ve been through.”

He feels Sam’s wide eyed stare on his face.

“Where’s this coming from?”

Dean shakes his head, but it doesn’t clear away the memory of holding Cas’ hand in the darkness, Emma nestled between them, their fingers twined together, and a soft, understanding look in his eyes. The way Dean wanted, the way he had wished so fiercely that circumstances could be different, the fact that, in that moment he had felt closer to home than he ever had before.

“Purgatory puts some shit in perspective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this latest chapter. This chapter was difficult to write for a variety of reasons, including (but not limited to) the fact that the entire thing was Sam and Dean talking, the lack of Emma, and re-reading transcripts of episodes from Season 8 to discover that the brothers had the same exact same conversation no fewer than five times with zero resolution. This chapter is my version of that: it's not necessarily a resolution, but it is progress, and I truly hope that it's not too OOC. As always, thank you for reading and commenting and encouraging this story. Comments are always welcome. xo


	30. Free Will

As far as rescue missions go, it’s probably one of their most successful (that’s not actually saying much, considering that most of their rescue missions involve one or more fatalities). Of course, the success of the mission is probably because Kevin did most of the rescuing himself. 

It’s no small thing escaping the Kind of Hell. No small thing for an eighteen year old kid, a novice hunter, who only found out about all this shit a year and a half ago. There’s a reason, Dean supposes, that Kevin was in Advanced Placement before the Holy Spirit descended or whatever and decided to royally screw the kid for no reason. Kid’s gifted. This is abundantly clear when they finally track him down. Finding Kevin involves Sam’s technological prowess, it involves old fashion detective foot work, and a demon interception thanks to Dean’s new found paranoid insistence in muttering Christo every time he enters a fucking building (they’re have to remember to exorcise the fucker and let Channing out later—Dean’s set a reminder in his phone and everything, they can’t have the bastard running home to tattle to daddy). Kevin has set up shop in a derelict church that he has rigged with traps and talismans galore. Dean’s dripping with a combination of Borax and holy water, and he’d be more annoyed if he weren’t so damned impressed with the kid’s set-up. It’s a fucking Super-Soaker 3000x filled with holy water. How fucking cool is that, and, more importantly, why the fuck hadn’t he ever thought of that? There should be at least two ready to roll in the trunk of the Impala at all times

Faced with a learning curve steep as Mt. Fucking Doom, Kevin laced on his hiking boots, grabbed a grappling hook and fucking went for it. Dean, who has recently been faced with the similarly daunting challenge of adapting to fatherhood, knows that he hasn’t done nearly as good a job rising to the challenge. 

The year has clearly taken a toll on Kevin. The kid looks rough. Hell, the kid doesn’t look much like a kid anymore. He’s still incredibly young, incredibly green. Too young for this shit, but his features are sharper—hollowed out by hunger and lack of sleep. His hair’s shorter and he’s got circles under his eyes like bruises. He’s ditched the prim and proper suit for practical clothes—jeans and tee shirts, flannel, layers for protection for less skin exposure, for hiding weapons, sigils drawn on skin. He still looks young, but he’s not a kid anymore, won’t ever be a kid again. Dean remembers looking at Sam at around that age and thinking the same damn thing, an old sadness curls, dark and bitter through him. The life claims another poor bastard, another potential future down the drain.

“Where the hell have you been?” Kevin demands, expression between pissed off and incredulous when he realizes he not being assaulted by Leviathan or demon spawn.

“Spark notes?” Dean rejoins, “I went to Purgatory. Sam hit a dog.”

Kevin’s eyes fly wide and his mouth twists in confusion, like Dean’s fucking with him, and oh how Dean wishes he were.

“Are you serious?” he blurts, glancing between the two of them, waiting for a punchline. 

Dean shrugs. Sam look like he’d enjoy nothing more than punching Dean in the face, but he doesn’t (really can’t) contest Dean’s assertion. Kevin’s face shuttles rapidly between betrayed, puzzled, disbelieving, before finally settling on (appropriately) outraged.

“Seriously?!”

He at least lowers the water gun. 

“Oh, I’m serious,” Dean retorts, “Now, c’mon princess, we’re here to rescue you.”

“You’re kind of late.”

Dean grimaces and shoots a pointed look at Sam, “Yeah, well, C3PO here fumbled your message.”

Sam looks sheepish, hunching his shoulders and running his hand through his shiny new Rapunzel hair. Kevin glares at him with all the disillusioned hatred of an eighteen year old. He tells them about his year on the run. They’re basically taking turns giving the hunter’s version of “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” speeches. Sam is the kid that went to Disney World and the Bahamas and rounded things off with a trip to the Jersey Shore, while Dean and Kevin were sent to military camp and reform school respectively. Sam got a fucking house in the Hampton's and Dean and Kevin had the year from hell (in Kevin’s case literally). Sam looks uncomfortable with Kevin’s revelations, he has the decency to look contrite, though he’s still holding fast to the ‘I did what I could at the time’ mentality. Dean can tell by the way that Sam’s face doesn’t completely crumple listening to Kevin’s tale. Dean nods approvingly when Kevin describes outwitting and escaping Crowley. He legit high fives Kevin. Job well done. 

When Kevin gets to the part about closing the gates of hell everything freezes. 

“Holy shit.” 

“Are you serious?”

“Sure am.”

That’s, well, that’s a game changer. That straight up changes everything. They could finally be done. Put all those bastards away, every single fucking one. Send them back to where the sun don’t fucking shine. Lock the door, throw away the key. End it. Fucking end it. It’s like there’s a finish line. Dean can see it, after years of sprinting, running a marathon with no end in sight, he can finally, finally, fucking see it, it’s right there. He can almost reach it, and then—he remembers. Nothing comes for free. Nothing. It doesn’t matter all that he’s paid in the past, it doesn’t matter that, by rights the universe owes him one (or twenty), that doesn’t mean shit. There’s always a price, and, fuck, a couple months ago, Dean wouldn’t have given a single, solitary shit about the price tag. What the fuck would it matter? His life was always gonna end bloody one way or another, knife or bullet, hell, teeth, it was always gonna end that way (it has ended that way a few times already), didn’t matter when as along as he went down fighting but now…things are different. 

There’s a kid. His kid. He thinks of Emma’s sharp eyes and her rare smiles, the way that she cradles her stuffed rabbit in her arms, how she taps her toes to the radio. He pictures Emma’s fingers buried in Cas’ coat and her head against his side, the scars that line her back from Purgatory. He thinks of her with her mouth full of burger and the way that freckles are popping out on her cheeks in the sun. More clearly than anything else, he sees the look of fear and betrayal and shock on her face when he left her. He could stay gone. He could chase this lead to the end of the fucking world. To the end of his fucking life. He could leave Emma with Benny or with Jody (or both). They would look after her, protect her, Dean’s sure of it, he trusts them. They would make sure she was fed and watered and tucked in at night and properly socialized. She would be fine with them, hell, she might even be better off. It hadn’t escaped his notice how much the three of them had looked like a proper family in the rearview mirror as he drove away. It probably never would. It haunted him, buried beneath his skin, a persistent itch, knowing he wasn’t good enough, and probably couldn’t ever give his child that. He could follow this and pay the price however steep and know the world would be better off minus Dean, minus demons, but what about Emma’s world? What about her life? He let her die. He brought her back. Could he really leave her? Leave her for who knows how long to solve this? Leave her maybe forever at its end? He thinks about all the firsts he’s missed, how their absence aches, he thinks of all the ones he’s seen, precious and secreted away, treasured each and every one, he thinks of all the firsts he would miss if he did this. Her life. He would miss her fucking life. Was he willing to do that? 

Maybe she would be better off, she might be, Dean’s a shitty person, he’s a shitty parent, but he can’t help but think, in a way that’s become more common since he found her, what his life would have been like if his dad had stopped. If he had said screw it, to the mission and the hunt. If he had taken Dean and Sam somewhere and just lived life. There was a time, when Dean was six or seven or so, and he watched his dad drive away again. Sam toddled in the wake of the Impala, and Pastor Jim scooped him up, trying to herd them inside, he laid a big hand on Dean’s head and it was warm and heavy, and comforting in its way, but it wasn’t what Dean wanted. What Dean wished for, more than anything in the world, in that moment, more even than he wished for his mom, was that his dad would just stay. He didn’t flatter himself to think that Emma felt the same way about Dean, but if there was even a chance that she did—if there was even a chance that she could grow to want him to stay—Dean couldn’t throw that away. Couldn’t throw her away. Couldn’t miss this second chance. 

And what about Cas? Cas who threw away everything to get them out of that cesspool. Cas who was still rotting there, if he was still alive to rot. Was Dean gonna just throw Cas away? Forget about him and jump on this new mission without looking back? He sees Cas’ eyes, bright and sharp and so, so old as he pushed Emma into Dean’s arms. He remembers the roughness and warmth of Cas’ hand in his. He can feel the weight of Cas in his arms, holding on for dear life when he finally found him. He can’t leave Cas. He can’t. He just…he can’t, won’t.

He looks at Sam. He looks at Kevin. 

“We need to talk,” he says to Sam.

“Right,” Sam agrees, “Kevin?”

Dean takes a deep breath through his nose, “Yeah, c’mon.”

They sit in the pews of the church. 

“So, Kev, this is, this is awesome, what you did, what you figured out. It’s incredible,” Sam darts a look at Dean. 

Kevin frowns, “There’s a ‘but’; I can hear the ‘but’”

“But,” Dean continues sharing a fortifying glance with Sam, sure that they’re on the same page before he continues, “we,” he gestures between his brother and himself, “we been down roads like this one before, this isn’t the type of road that you start on and you make it out on the other side in one piece. It’s a one way street with a dead end. Literally.”

Sam’s jaw jumps, “You’ve done a great job, Kevin, what you’ve done here, I mean, not anyone could do this, but you’ve got to be sure about this, if this is something you want to do.”

“Once you’re in,” Dean continues, “it’s almost impossible to get back out. This isn’t a decision you make lightly.” 

“We, ah, we left you in a lurch before, we left you to deal with this yourself, and we didn’t give you a choice. We’re giving you one now. ”

Dean takes offense at the ‘we’. It rankles him to his core. He sure as fuck didn’t leave Kevin. But he can talk to Sam about that later. For now he spares him a glare before focusing on the prophet. 

Kevin looks between them, “Ever since I became a prophet; I can’t believe this is my life.”

Dean snorts; he knows that feeling, ten times over. 

“You’re trying to tell me that I have a choice,” he continues, “that I don’t have to do this.”

Dean can hear his dad’s response clear as a bell, but he speaks the opposite. 

“You don’t,” it’s liberating almost, somewhere beneath thirty years of conditioning, “that doesn’t mean you get to pretend this shit ain’t out there, doesn’t mean you don’t take precautions, but—we can find a way to get us out.”

“Us?” Kevin’s brows rise to his hair line, “I was kind of under the impression,” he shoots a skeptical look at Sam that heavily implies ‘until recently’, “that you guys were in this for life.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, not sure what to say. Quite frankly, Dean doesn’t think he can stomach listening to Sam rhapsodize about his domestic idyll with Amelia right now. More importantly, he thinks Kevin might break Sam’s nose if he shares too much about how bright and shiny his life has been lately.

Dean jumps in, “I’ve been reevaluating my options lately. Thinking it might be time to retire.”

Kevin is a great kid. He’s smart and tough and he can hold his own, but Dean’s not saying shit about Emma to him. The fewer people who know about her, the better. 

“Was Purgatory that bad?”

Dean can smell it again, the cloying aroma of rot and blood, the room seems to dim for a moment, he forces a sardonic smile on his face, “Let’s just say my makeover didn’t involve a manicure and a haircut.”

“Riiigghhttt,” Kevin looks like he’s really regretting the question, “so we want out, what now? How the hell are we supposed to do that?”

The brothers share a look, but it’s Dean who answers with a grim smile as he rises to his feet. 

“We make a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to throw confetti or something: 30 chapters is a milestone. One that I did not necessarily anticipate when this story popped into my head. Thank you to all of you who have been part of this journey. I honestly don't know when the next update will be, but I will try to have it written and posted as soon as possible. As always, comments are appreciated and I'm sending so much love to all of you. There's no way this story would still be going without all of your wonderful encouragement and enthusiasm. 
> 
> Disclaimer: some of the dialogue in this chapter was lifted straight from episode 8.01.


	31. Let's Make a Deal

This is not the type of deal that takes place at a crossroads. Dean’s not digging in the dirt with a cigar box full of hoodoo, and he is sure as fuck not slipping Crowley some tongue in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. This time the demon is coming to them, they just have to wait. 

Dean shoots Jody a few texts to check in and then sprawls out in a church pew with an arm thrown over his face. Sam is a few rows ahead, closer to the altar, talking quietly with Kevin. Dean’s giving them some semblance (or the illusion) of privacy, while he maintains a sort of tenuous grip on consciousness. He is bone deep tired, like he’s been for weeks, hell, years, but he’s also tense. This thing is either gonna go off without a hitch or blow up in his face. There’s no middle ground.

“—my responsibility—” Sam is saying.

Dean tunes it out. He squints at his phone for the fifth time in two minutes. Nada. He covers his eyes again, and idly bounces his knee. It’s probably for the best that Jody isn’t responding. He shouldn’t be worried about what’s happening elsewhere right now. He’s gotta get his head in the game. He needs to keep his head in the game…but he hasn’t talked to Jody since yesterday, and he wonders and worries. Is Emma still stony and silent? Is she eating? Did she sleep last night? Does she hate him? Is she happier without him? He bites his lip and lets out a long exhale trying to dispel the sick feeling in his gut. 

Crowley’s arrival is preceded by two goons (typical) that Sam and Dean dispatch with relative ease. It’s fucking ridiculous how good it feels to lift a blade, how fucking amazing the adrenaline rush is; blows and parries are so much easier than words. So much fucking easier than all the shit Dean’s been feeling lately, all the giant brick walls he’s been running into. It’s such a relief to kick this dick’s ass. It’s like riding a damn bike: familiar and refreshing. 

Dean is sweating and panting with blood on his knife and a bruise blooming on his cheek when Crowley calls their attention with a slow, mocking clap of his hands. 

“Dean,” he smiles with a sardonic glint to his eyes, reminding him absurdly of an overgrown crow, “It’s been a while, where is your better half? Couples’ retreat not work out the way you’d hoped?”

“Bite me,” Dean snarls.

“Ah, there’s that grade school wit,” Crowley rejoins, “how I’ve missed your charms. Clearly Cas must feel the same way.”

Dean starts forward plans be damned, but his brother grabs his arm, stopping Dean’s homicidal head rush and calling Crowley’s attention.

“Sam,” he almost croons, the slimy fucker, “still with the pork chops, I admire that.”

Sam must have a tighter grip on his tongue and his temper because he pulls a bitch face, but doesn’t take the bait.

“And, Kevin, my sweet prince, you gave me the slip, I’m impressed, truly.”

“Fuck you, Crowley,” the teen spits, defiant.

“Tut tut, darling, too much time with these two will erode your vocabulary if you’re not careful.”

“Enough with the bullshit, Crowley,” Dean interjects.

“Case in point.”

Sam sighs, “We want to make a deal.”

Crowley rocks back on his heels, brows rising in surprise and something like delight, “Not what I was expecting,” he rubs his hands together, “how can I help you boys?”

“Jesus, stow the enthusiasm,” Dean rolls his eyes. 

Sam glares at Dean, and then faces Crowley, “Kevin made a few discovers over the past year.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“I found out how to close the gates of hell,” Kevin stands up straighter, chest puffed out with pride at the pronouncement. Dean stares straight ahead, keeps his face and his mind blank. Crowley tilts his head, a supercilious smile curling at his lips, and a dangerous gleam in his beady, black eyes.

“I was not aware of that particular piece of information,” he says, “those honors awards were not given in vain, were they?”

He looks away from Kevin and passes he gaze between Sam and Dean, “And what are you proposing?”

Dean glances at Sam, who nods minutely, “We wanna skip ahead a few chapters here.”

“Skip ahead?”

“Crowley, we all know that if we have the roadmap for how to lock you and all your minions downstairs,” Sam continues “we’re damn well gonna do it.”

“Are you?”

Dean rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, “We’ve done this a couple times. Teaser trailer: we’d start to do it, you’d try to stop us, we’d foil your literally evil plots, someone or several someones would die on both sides, you’d get desperate, and we’d win.”

“We’re trying to subtract the part where several people die in the middle,” Kevin adds succinctly.

Crowley’s eyes narrow, “What exactly are you proposing?”

“A truce,” Dean shrugs “plain and simple.”

Crowley’s eyes widen almost comically, “A truce? The Winchesters are proposing a truce?” he whistles low, “What on earth did Purgatory do to you?”

Dean scowls, breaking script for the first time since the devil brigade showed up, “It was a fucking picnic.”

Sam gives him a quelling look, “The point is, you know us, Crowley. You know that we’ll do this. You aren’t gonna be stupid enough to underestimate an opportunity when you see it. This is in investment in your future.”

“They could seriously fuck up your business plans, dude,” Kevin adds, crossing his arms like he’s more than happy to help wreak havoc on hell’s infrastructure.

“We stopped the apocalypse, flying by the seat of our pants,” Dean continues, “you think we can’t put you out of business when we have a literal roadmap?”

“So let me get this straight,” Crowley begins ticking off fingers, “you lost your boyfriend in Monsterland, and you had a year-long vacation and don’t want to get back to your nightmare of a life, and you’re trying to pitch this as doing a favor for me? Give me some credit, boys.”

Sam gestures for Dean to stand down, “You’re not wrong: I had a break, it was great, and Dean’s year sucked. We both want out. But if you don’t think that we will lock you in hell and throw away the key to make that happen,” Sam’s eyes narrow dangerously, he looks more like the Sam of old than he has since Dean found him again, he looks determined, dangerous, “you’re dead wrong.”

“Take the deal, Crowley,” Dean interjects, “it’ll save us all a lot of fucking time and effort, and we’re not gonna make the offer again.”

Crowley looks from Dean to Sam and finally Kevin, running through his options, making calculations. Crowley is a shrewd mother fucker, Dean knows, and he’s maybe the most pragmatic of the assholes they’ve come up against. He lacks Azazel’s convoluted sick need for drama, he lacks Lilith’s devotion, and he’s not got Lucifer of Michael’s megalomaniac god complexes, he sure as fuck doesn’t have Dick Roman’s appetite. Crowley is, at heart, a business man. A shrewd wheeler and dealer of sins and souls, and the only reason he’s still around is that he adapts and changes with the times, and he has never, not once, underestimated Sam, Dean, and Cas’ propensity for fucking shit up. He’d be stupid to renounce this opportunity. They all know it. It’s just a matter of Crowley actually conceding the point. 

“What are your terms?” he finally asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, I know, but moving us forward plot wise. Love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Thank you, as always, for the support, encouragement, and feedback. You are all so wonderful. <3
> 
> PS  
> I know that a lot of you have mentioned how much you miss Cas--you're not alone, I miss him too. I've made a solemn vow that this fic will stick to Dean's POV, and it's following Season 8, so Cas' absence will continue for a little bit longer, BUT keep your eyes open for something Cas related to be posted soon...


	32. The Devil You Know

In the end, it takes a little over a week to work out a deal. What starts as a list of demands, is argued over and debated, and argued over and debated some more, then translated into legalese and then Demon-ese, and then back to legalese. They all read through it once, made corrections, compared notes, give it back to Crowley’s Legal Team (there are apparently a lot of extremely successful lawyers in Hell, who’d have thought? Dean makes scathing jokes about it every chance he gets, until Sam and Crowley are the same degree of fed up), and then read it all over again. The entire process is grueling and exhausting. Of course, Sammy taks to the debates like a damn duck to water. Dean can all too easily see the respectable lawyer he would have been, had fate taken a different turn. Kevin pours over the documents with a sharp eyes, a red pen, and a stack of Post-Its. 

“Dude, after translating the Word of God, this is basically Dr. Suess,” he says when Dean comments on his methods. 

Dean has perhaps the most practical approach to the material. That is: he straight up does not trust the shit that Crowley said and therefore reads everything with an eye to catch out a lie. Crowley is a used car salesman and the contract is a too good to be true vintage mustang. 

The haggling and arguing and scathing remarks fly pretty freely throughout the process, but, in the end, they reach an agreement. During the time it takes to get there, during the arguments and the debates, Kevin and Channing find the time to break up amicably (or as amicably as two teenagers can, given the circumstances). Sam can’t manage to hide how much he actually enjoys his philosophical debates with hell-spawn regarding semantics. Dean tries in vain to communicate with Jody and Emma, while desperately trying to keep their existence secret. If Crowley knew that Emma existed, he would have a huge bargaining chip (i.e. kidnap and kill the kid in exchange for a cease and desist on closing the Gates of Hell), and Dean refuses to allow his daughter to be brought anywhere near this shit. That’s the whole fucking reason he agreed to any of this in the first place, to protect Emma. Trying to stay in contact with people you’re trying to pretend don’t exist is hard—it’s frustrating and stressful and it basically consists of superficial and vague as fuck text messages to Jody that leave Dean feeling unsatisfied and antsy. When asked about the constant phone checking, he tells Crowley that he has a hunter researching a way to get Cas out of Purgatory. 

“You really think that I’d drop the ball on that while you knuckleheads talk fucking tortes over here?” Dean scoffs.

“Heaven forbid,” Crowley rejoins drolly.

At the end of the ninth day, they have document that they can all (more or less) agree on. 

If Dean were to take all the bullshit and translate it back into colloquial English—something that actually makes sense and doesn’t require a fucking scroll illuminated in miniscule script that, when fully unfurled, runs from the altar to the fucking front steps of the god damn church that has been their go to meeting spot—it would go something like this:

Crowley gets custody of the Demon Tablet. Crowley also gets to keep his kingdom intact and open, and his operations on earth are allowed to run as normal. Crowley also gets first dibs on any other tablets that may or may not be unearthed within the next century. 

Dean and Sam essentially vow not to close the Gates of Hell, nor will they seek out, hunt, maim, torture, or otherwise intervene directly into hell business. In exchange, Dean and Sam become a no fly zone for demons. They each have a literal ten mile radius in which no demon will enter. If they do, they immediately become persona non grata and can be knifed, flayed, killed, exorcised, etc. by the Winchesters at their discretion. Sam and Dean are free to hunt anything else, essentially, they are free to do anything else; they just have to do it without demons. It’s not that great of a sacrifice if they think of it that way 

The hands off policy extends to their family (seven generations worth—it seems overly generous until they realize that Crowley doesn’t expect either of them to actually reproduce). This part was probably the most difficult to hash out, mostly because Dean and Sam don’t technically have an biological family left on earth, but they do have people they would consider family, or may in the future consider family; the exact parameters of the definition needed to be discussed and agreed upon. At least six feet of the contract are dedicated to describing the myriad caveats attached to any familial claims and defining the term for practical purposes. Crowley was very insistent on this: he didn’t want Dean and Sam to find a loophole that would allow them to extend familial status to the entire human race. By the same token, Dean and Sam refused to sign anything that wouldn’t grant protection to their chosen family if they’re no longer going to be in a position to gank any fucker who might try to stir up trouble. It takes three days to reach an accord. Basically, ‘family’ includes romantic/life partners and offspring. Crowley initially put it down as future offspring and Dean almost launched across the table (“Dude, our half-brother was eaten alive because the poor fucker shared DNA with our dad.” “Your point being?” “I had a wild youth, dude,” Dean smirked and then sobered, “I don’t want some kid getting screwed over by demons cause I knocked someone up fifteen years ago” Crowley rolled his eyes, though no one was really sure if it was directed at Dean’s misspent youth or his persistent ability to make everything difficult, before agreeing to the amendment). Dean shared a look with Sam and they shared a sigh of relief. Kevin frowned at them both and shook his head; he didn’t really have much patience for their bullshit during negotiations. 

For the purposes of their agreement, ‘family’ also includes individuals with whom Sam and/or Dean share a strong connection that warrants inclusion into the family unit. They have to perform a blood ritual, in order to official grant them this status, after which they become untouchable. Family members don’t get a no fly zone, but they do get a giant hands off. 

Kevin gets his own subset of conditions: essentially a contract within a contract. In exchange for not closing the Gates of Hell or using his knowledge to destroy or disrupt its governance, he gets to live his life without radical intervention from Crowley’s Inferno. His family and friends are safe, but he does have to be ‘on call’ to translate any existing of future Word of God. 

“Think of it as freelance work, a profitable internship even,” Crowley insisted. 

Under the terms of the contract, Kevin cannot be coerced, maimed, tortured, kidnapped, or otherwise compelled to translate. He also gets genuine Hell forged ‘excuses’ for any work or school missed while translating. The final condition is that, in the interest of keeping Kevin alive, and untouched, he is required to have a Crowley approved body guard to defend his person from foreseeable threats.

“We’ve gone through all this trouble, I’m loathe to train a new prophet after we’ve grown so close,” Crowley coos.

“I’ll bet you are,” Kevin mumbled, scowling.

He essentially got to choose between Stunt Demon #5 or a hellhound pup—Growley just whelped a litter—it frankly gives Dean the shivers to think about hellhound reproduction, but here they are. 

Kevin stared at Crowley like he’d lost his mind, “You want me to take an invisible, bloodthirsty monster to college?”

“Of course not—”

“Oh good, because—”

“—it’ll have a glamour to look like an actual dog. Wouldn’t want to scare the peons when they run into it. You can pretend it’s a service animal.”

Kevin balks, “You know that’s really disrespectful to people who actually need service animals.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed and he smiled threateningly, “I know that if you don’t take the deal willingly, I will personally see to it that you require the use of a service animal.”

“Great,” Kevin glared. 

When it finally (finally!) comes time to sign in blood (of course) with a fucking Umbridge inspired pen (of fucking course) because Crowley thinks that’s more civilized and conserves mess (he has a point), Dean is ready to just get it over with and get the fuck out of there. He’s sick of demon lawyers, he’s sick of Crowley’s smug fucking face, he’s sick of reading this shit fifteen times, he’s just done. He misses his kid, he misses his friends. He’s taken too long here—he’s left Emma for too long, he’s left Cas for too long. He needs to get back to them—both of them. 

As eager as he is to just sign and hit the road already, he can’t help but hesitate for a moment. Just a moment. He can’t help it. He thinks of his mom when she made her deal to have a normal life—those weren’t technically the terms, he knows, but he and Sam wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t made that deal—she looked desperate, wrecked, tears shining in the headlights of his car. He thinks of all the shit that’s been wrought by the deal she made. He thinks about his deal—the taste of sulfur in his mouth, hellhound claws deep in his flesh, the first lick of hellfire. 

At the end of the first day of their wheeling and dealing with Crowley he had turned to Sam, “Are we doin’ the right thing?”

Sam frowned at him, “You really asking that? Dean, this was your idea.”

“I know, I just,’ He rubs a hand against the back of his neck, “all the times we’ve made a deal, or tried to…it hasn’t really worked out for us.”

Sam sighed, shook his head, “This isn’t like those times.”

Dean knows Sam was right. This isn’t like those times. This is a premeditated decision. They’ve considered this from every angle, they’ve weighed the pros and cons, sober, clearheaded; there isn’t someone they love lying dead in front of them and a demon whispering in their ears. This has been executed in exacting detail. Dean hopes to god that this doesn’t come back around to bite them in the ass. They went into this with the best of intentions, protect themselves, get out while they can, get off the goddamn merry-go-round where they die for one another and make increasingly shitty decisions that damn them and everyone they love every other Tuesday. But Dean, maybe more than anyone, knows what the road to hell is paved with, and he’s worried he’s laying the first stone on a longer path, just like his mom did, just like his dad did, just like he’s done before. 

He swallows past that. Takes a deep breath and puts his pen to paper. They all sign. Crowley makes copies. 

“Pleasure doing business with you boys,” Crowley smiles snide and satisfied.

Dean dons a shit eating grin, “Crowley, believe me when I say how fucking happy I am to never have to see your smug face again.”

“Ah, Dean,” Crowley sighs, “And here I thought we had something special.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Kevin, sweet prince, I will see you shortly.”

Kevin scowls.

“In parting, I would encourage you all to remember that you made this deal with me,” he looks them in the eye, one after another, “This deal holds while I am ruling hell, remember that.”

“Yeah, kind of hard not to,” Sam’s mouth twists.

“I don’t know Sam, I’m gonna try to forget as soon as humanly possible,” Dean rejoins with a smirk.

“The Devil you know, boys, the Devil you know,” Crowley taps his nose sagely, raises his brows, and promptly disappears in a cloud of red smoke.

“Fucking dramatic little shit,” Dean mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darlings, thank you, as ever, for taking the time to read this story. Your kindness, encouragement, and patience keep me going.


	33. Homeward Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I added this chapter and the previous one at the same time. If you haven't read Chapter 32, please, read that first.

The whole thing is oddly anti-climactic. They feel more obligated to celebrate than they feel like actually celebrating. They just eradicated demons from their lives, there is a weird niggling feeling that they should go to Disneyland or something, get a drink, have a party, except…more than anything Dean wants to get back to Emma (if he ever makes it to Disneyland it’s gonna be with Emma and Cas in tow, Sam too if he can ever get it so that he and Emma can peaceably exist in the same room). Kevin just wants to go home (and possibly sleep for a week to make up for all the sleep he’s lost to paranoia and fear over the past year). Sam wants to square things away with Amelia as quickly as possible. It only takes a shared look for them to realize they’re all on the same page, they pile into the Impala and drive. 

Dean glances at his phone after about fifteen minutes, half expecting a response from Jody (he sent her a text as soon as Crowley apparated back to demon land to let her know they were on their way), but he has no new messages. He tries not to be disappointed, and refocuses on the road.

“How is she?” Sam asks watching his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Dean doesn’t feel the typical recoil whenever Sam mentions Emma (maybe they’re making progress, maybe he’s too tired to care).

“Who?” Kevin interjects from the back.

“Don’t really know,” Dean says to Sam, hitting the gas a little harder. 

Kevin leans forward, “Don’t know what?”

Dean sighs. He thought he’d left the headache in the church, but that seems to have been wishful thinking. 

Sam answers Kevin, “His kid, Kevin. I’m asking about his kid.”

“You have a kid,” Kevin sounds really fucking incredulous, “since when?”

Dean takes a deep breath through his nose and redoubles his grip on the wheel, trying to stay in the present, “Since Purgatory,” he answers gruffly.

“Since—,“ Kevin’s eyes fly wide, almost pop out of his head, “Oh my god!”

“What!?” Dean and Sam respond, Dean fixing Kevin with a look in the rearview mirror and Sam turning to face him.

“You and Cas—!”

“What about me and Cas?”

“The two of you!”

“What are you talking about, Kevin?”

“Cas had your freaking angel baby in Purgatory!”

“What—?!” Dean sputters and swerves, before quickly correcting baby’s course. Sam snorts hard enough that he starts choking on his own spit, hacking up a lung in the passenger seat. Meanwhile Kevin continues babbling about Nephilim in the back.

“—I can’t believe—”

“Kevin,” Dean interjects, “Cas did not have my half angel baby in Purgatory. Jesus Fucking Christ. I’m pretty sure I would remember that. This isn’t a damn soap opera and that’s not even—”

Kevin opens him mouth to interrupt, and god fucking only knows what the hell that kid has learned about angelic reproduction, but Dean slices his hand swiftly through the air and shakes his head, “Ya know what? I don’t wanna know. We’re not gonna open that box.”

“But—”

“Not gonna open it,” Dean insists. 

Sam clears his throat, “Dean, means to say that he found his kid in Purgatory.”

Kevin frowns, “How does that make sense?”

Sam gets a tense line between his brows and looks at Dean before he explains the situation. When he finishes, Kevin leans back against the seat and shakes his head.

“Dude,” he says, “your lives are so messed up.”

Dean snorts, “Understatement.”

“So Emma is with the cop and the vampire and you’re gonna try to spring Cas from Purgatory?”

“That about sums it up.”

Kevin shakes his head some more, clearly contemplating how fucked up Dean and Sam’s lives are. 

“Well, if I can help, with Cas, let me know.”

“Seriously?” Dean asks, fixing Kevin with a stare in the mirror, “you don’t have to do that.”

“Well, yeah,” Kevin responds, “but I’m not an asshole.” 

He spares a glance at Sam with a clearly implied, “unlike some people.”

“I got to spend way too much time with the Leviathan, and I’ve read all about Purgatory, I’m pretty sure that’s not somewhere Cas should be,” he frowns, “plus, Emma’s life has sucked enough, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t really deserve to lose her pseudo parent if we can help it.”

“Kevin, that’s really—” Dean stumbles, “—thanks.”

“Yeah, well,” Kevin shrugs and smiles, “hook me up with some documents explaining where I’ve been for the past year that’ll look good on my resume and we’ll call it even.”

Sam and Dean laugh. 

“I think we can manage that.”

Kevin is relieved and unnerved to be home. Poor kid’s been through a lot, but Dean can’t help but be proud of him. Dean and Sam are beyond impressed by Kevin’s mother. Mrs. Tran is a badass, a tiny, terrifying badass. Dean decides almost immediately that he should introduce her to Jody. They’d get along like a freaking house on fire. 

After hugging and fawning over her son, she thanks them for bringing him home to her. She takes Kevin and Dean and Sam’s explanations in stride, and she adjusts to her new reality with a practical and frankly awesome attitude. 

She insists they stay for at least a cup of tea before they get back on the road. She hugs her son, never letting him get to far from her person, reassuring herself that he’s there. Dean is jealous of them, both of them: of Kevin for having a parent who so clearly loves him, and of Kevin’s mother for being able to so readily and easily communicate that love. 

They go over some things as they sip their tea. Dean and Sam tell them how to set up protective wards around the house. Dean encourages them both to get inked: anti-possession tattoos (because it’s better to be safe than sorry) and angelic warding (because you can never be too careful). They exchange numbers and email addresses. Dean and Sam give them the address of three of Bobby’s safe houses, which they insist that they memorize rather than write down. Sam writes down their best exorcism, Dean scrawls out angel banishing sigils. They make note of the best recipe for a hex bag, and instruct them both on how to deal with Hellhounds. 

When they’ve gone over all the necessary things, Mrs. Tran thanks them again (within 48 hours she’ll start sending Dean parenting advice via text message). She hugs them both. 

“If you need anything,” Dean promises.

“I’ll call,” Kevin tells them. 

“We’ll answer this time,” Sam swears. Dean actually believes him. 

Dean and Sam pile into the Impala, Dean and turns on the radio, they drive towards Lousiana well over the speed limit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the weird humor in this chapter. I also apologize for any typos. I hope that you're enjoying (I'd love to hear your thoughts). Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting and being wonderful. Emma will finally be back next chapter. Keep your eyes open for the Cas companion piece which should be up relatively soon. <3


	34. Hello Stranger

Dean drives all night. He drives through six states and over fourteen hours, and it’s only when the reach the border of Louisiana, when Dean’s hands are shaking from too much coffee and not enough sleep, and the lines on the highway are starting to blur, that he gives in to Sam’s insistence and let’s his brother take the wheel for the final leg of the journey. 

To say that he’s tired is probably an understatement; to say that he nervous definitely is. It’s what’s kept him up for the past going on thirty eight hours, but adrenaline can only take Dean so far, and somewhere between tapping his hand staccato against his knee and listening to Sam debate the merits of renting a car to get him to Texas versus taking the truck Dean lifted in Maine, Dean ends up drifting off with his forehead pressed against the passenger side window. 

Sam wakes him with a gentle shake of his shoulder about an hour later, and Dean startles awake, confused and squinting, wiping at his eyes. The afternoon sun is so bright, it burns his fucking retinas. He’s still not totally used to that. 

“Dude,” Sam says, “we’re here.”

That sure as hell wakes Dean up. He clambers out of the car and stretches, several satisfying pops in his spine and a lingering ache in his low back and hip. Sam slams the trunk and comes up next to him, their duffels slung over his shoulder. 

Dean doesn’t know what to expect when he goes inside. His heart is in his throat and his palms are sweating and he hesitates by the Impala with a clenched jaw. 

Sam nudges him with a free elbow, “C’mon, man. Let’s bite the bullet.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, nodding, “Yeah.”

He barely opens the door before he’s enveloped in a bear hug. Benny nearly lifts him off the ground. 

“Good to have you back, brother,” he says when he releases him.

Dean smiles, “Good to be back.”

“Good to see you boys made it,” Jody says from where she stands near Sam. 

Benny nods a greeting at Dean’s brother, which Sam cordially returns, and Jody gives Dean a hug. 

“Shouldn’t you make sure we’re really us?” Sam asks.

Benny shrugs, “You were possessed, I’d smell it on you. Demon blood stinks like rotten meat, ain’t no vamp wants to drink that.”

Sam shifts awkwardly on his feet, “That’s, ah, good to know.”

Dean is not touching that with a fucking ten foot pole. He opens his mouth with a question on the tip of his tongue, and Jody, ever observant nods behind him. 

Dean turns and, well, there she is. 

Emma stands in the doorway, a safe distance from the grownups, watching with wide eyes. Her feet are bare and her hair falls loose around her shoulders. She got the beginnings of a tan, her skin warmer and brighter for time in the sun, a spattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks that weren’t there when Dean left. Is she taller? Has she gotten taller since he went away? She looks taller. Jesus, what else has he missed?

Dean has to clear his throat before he can speak, “Hey, Emma.”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch, she just stares at him, eyes wide and impossibly round. 

“I—” he starts without really knowing where he’s going—an apology maybe, or an explanation, god knows she deserves one—but what comes out is something different, something perhaps more genuine to the overwhelming, all-consuming relief he feels just looking at her in that moment, “—I’m so happy to see you, kid.”

Emma rocks slightly back onto her heels, as if buffeted by Dean’s words, as if they had the power to move her, unsettle her. They’re apparently enough to shake her out of her discerning observation. She blinks at him, once, twice, then glances quickly to his side, taking in Sam, then Jody and Benny, then Dean again. She considers him for a moment, and then something twists in her placid expression, her jaw and mouth tighten and her brows furrow slightly, and then, without a single word, she turns on her heel and darts away. 

Dean doesn’t think, he just moves. He runs after her, quickly enough that when she slams the door to her bedroom, it almost hits him in the face, and he’s left staring at the wooden paneling with something like shock. 

He shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t. What the hell did he expect? That he would show up after leaving with almost no warning and no explanation and she would welcome him back with open arms? He hadn’t expected that, but…he had hoped. Fuck, he had hoped. He had no fucking right to hope for anything. He should know better. That kid owes him nothing. Not a single damn thing.

He swallows hard. His hand hovers over the door knob, hesitating, he could open it. He could walk in, corner her, confront her, force her to hear him out.

“You wanna be a monster, Dean?” He thinks, “You wanna take this away too?”

He remembers Cas in Purgatory, the day they found her, “She deserves a choice, Dean,” he had said. Cas was right, is right. 

He can’t force her to listen to him. He can’t force her to forgive him. If she doesn’t want to look at him, can he fucking blame her?

He pulls his hand away, clenches his jaw. Emma doesn’t want him, that’s okay. He can live with that. Maybe. It’s no less than he deserves. 

He waits one for a minute, prays that she’ll open the door, but she doesn’t. Dean nods to himself, shoves his hands in his pockets and walks back out to join the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Dean's back. How are we feeling about this? xo


	35. We'll Get Together Then

By the time Dean gets back out to the kitchen, Sam is marking blood sigils onto Jody and Benny’s foreheads. 

“This ain’t exactly helpin’ my sobriety,” Benny quips, with a tightness to his jaw, like it’s taking a lot not to turn Sam into an all you can eat buffet.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Dean says with a levity he doesn’t feel, “you’ve resisted chowing down on me, and we all know I’m a hell of a lot sweeter than Sam.”

The meal in question rolls his eyes.

Jody changes topics tastefully, “Sam told us that you guys were successful and then some.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “Kevin’s good, we’re semi-retired, and you don’t have to worry about getting hijacked by some black eyed sonofabitch ever.”

“We ’ppreciate that, brother,” Benny says strained until after they’ve said their words in Latin and Jody offers him a wet rag to wipe the sigil off. 

“What did, ah, I miss?” Dean asks, after a few moments pass in silence.

Benny and Jody share a look.

“You know, you boys must be hungry,” Benny smiles, “after all that wheelin’ and dealin’, damn near won yourselves a fiddle of gold from the Devil. I’m gonna go and whip up something to eat, huh?”

Jody folds her arms and bites her lip.

“Jody,” Dean begins more forcefully, worry creeping under his skin, “What did we miss?”

She shakes her head, “Nothing you should be worried about, just, we should talk about this once you’ve had a minute to catch your breath.”

Sam looks at Dean with wide, sympathetic eyes. 

“Really, Dean,” she says, with a gentle hand to his shoulder, “You and Sam sit down, relax for a minute…I’ll be right back.” 

She squeezes gently and goes to join Benny in the kitchen.

“Dean,” Sam says after they’ve sat down at the table in the dining room, “Emma just needs time.”

Dean snorts, “She could barely even look at me, Sam.”

“She’s a kid, Dean,” Sam leans forward on his elbows, “she’s upset, and confused. That’s normal.”

Dean stares at his brother because really? 

“Sam, nothing about this is normal.” 

Not Sam killing his niece, not Dean bringing her back to life. Not being the daughter of the Righteous Man and the protégé of the Angel of Thursday. Not living three very accelerated days on earth, not living three years in a war zone filled with monsters. Not having a parent abandon her over and over again.

Sam’s face twists first with guilt, and then with contemplation, like he’s puzzling out a case.

“Maybe not before, granted,” he says, “but I don’t know, man, maybe this is the normal part.”

“What?”

“Well, let’s say you had Emma the ‘normal’ way, right?” Sam gestures widely, as if to conjure a world where Dean saw Emma born into this world, pink and fragile and crying fit to burst, “As far as I know they don’t send babies home from the hospital or a foster home or whatever with a guidebook and explicit instructions.”

Dean frowns. It hurts too much to think of what could have been. He saw Emma as a baby for a moment, small and fair, blonde haired, bright-eyed, and standing on chubby legs in a crib. If he had only realized then who she was, he could have…his imagination careens wildly, snatched her and run? Convinced Lydia to go into hiding? Anything but what actually happened. Anything but what led to those scars on Emma’s body and the fear in her eyes. Dean rubs at his eyes, they sting. 

“You’re a new parent,” Sam continues, laying a hand on Dean’s arm and squeezing, “and you’re trying to figure out what to do. You’re gonna make mistakes,” he shrugs, “but it’s gonna matter more how you fix ‘em.”

“I don’t know how I’m gonna fix this, Sammy,” he admits, gruff and afraid, “You don’t know…you didn’t see. It was bad, Sam. It was bad for me, and I’ve already seen some shit,” Sam’s mouth twists painfully, “she was a baby, Sam, a fucking baby.”

“Dean, I—” he clears his throat, “You’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

“How do you know that, Sam, huh? How’re you so sure I’m not just gonna fuck it up?”

Sam grits his teeth and breathes out deeply, “A few years ago, hell, last year, you would have jumped at completing those trials. You would’ve wanted to get back at those bastards for what they did to mom and…and to Jess…That would have been the only option,” he pauses, searching out Dean’s eyes, “but you didn’t. You initiated that deal, Dean, to get out of this life, and you did because…because you want this; you want her. You want to be Emma’s dad.”

Dean stares at Sam with his mouth slightly open, surprised, shocked, he’s never said it out loud, but fuck does he want to be that kid’s dad, and Sam is sitting here earnest as anything, reading Deam like the damn front page headline. Maybe his brother isn’t as gone as he thought he was.

“That’s how I know you’re not gonna fuck this up,” Sam squeezes his arm and lets go, “you want to make things better for her. You threatened to shoot me for looking at her wrong, for god’s sake. Your heart’s in the right place, and you’re not alone. Okay? I’ll help you. Whatever you need.”

Dean nods tightly, “Thanks, Sam.”

Sam gives him the ghost of a smile, “Yeah, well, I owe you both.”

Jody and Benny come in carrying bowls. Benny made gumbo and rice. It’s really fucking good. Sam even says as much earning him a look of begrudging respect from the chef. Benny raises a single brow at Dean as if to say, “Can’t fault him for his poor taste, at least,” and Dean chokes on bean while trying to cover his laugh. 

“Should we, ah…?” Dean tilts his head in the direction of the back room.

Jody shakes her head, “She had some lunch before you guys got here. I doubt she’s hungry right now.”

“Right,” Dean mumbles and turns back to his food. He’s enough to ruin anyone’s appetite. 

“So I talked to Garth,” Jody says to break the silence.

“Garth?” Dean asks, narrowing his eyes before turning to Sam, “Garth, like the drunk Japanese demon monster Garth?”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Or Garth Fitzgerald, but yeah, same guy.”

“How?” Dean sputters, “Why?”

Sam clears his throat, “I, ah, may have given Jody the number a while ago, as a kind of emergency, emergency, no one else to call, contact.”

“When you were with the whole time travel thing,” Jody adds, “Anyway, we were hitting a dead end with Bobby’s papers, so I called to get a third opinion.”

“And?”

“And,” Jody tilts her head, “he’s pretty much as stumped as we are. Before Crowley and Cas opened Purgatory, no one even believed it existed, so it’s not like there are a lot of experts outside the Vatican or the Theology Department, and I don’t think they’re going to be too much help.”

Dean frowns, “So wait, Garth is like, what? The new Bobby?” The idea is too much to process on top of everything else; Dean’s grief threatens to rise up from where he’s kept it buried but he pushes it back down. There isn’t time right now for that. 

Jody’s mouth twists sardonically, “I don’t think anyone can ever really replace Bobby,” she says gentle and heartfelt, and Dean remembers that she too lost, at the very least, a good friend, “but Garth is trying to keep things together at least. Someone has to man the phones and dole out lore in a pinch, and no one else was willing to rise to the challenge after…well…” she shrugs and pointedly stares at the table for a moment, before resuming her story, “Anyway, he offered to put out some feelers to see if anyone has any ideas, but, given that you guys and Cas aren’t exactly citizens of the year in the hunter community, I said no. I didn’t think that we would want any more trouble than we already have.”

“Good plan,” Sam agrees, “can you give me his number? I want to hear exactly what he has to say…”

The conversation twists and turns a bit after that. Sam and Dean tell Jody and Benny in more detail how things went down with Crowley; that Kevin is safe home with his mother; that both of them are willing to help in a pinch. Sam lets them know he’s planning to go to Texas before heading north to help with Cas—they’ve all agreed that whatever it is they’re going to do, their best bet is to start from where Dean and Emma came through the portal—Benny tells them that he’d like to settle some unfinished business with the Alpha of his Nest. 

“I don’t know that it’ll help much with Cas,” Benny says, apologetically, “but it might help a bit with our finances, and it’s something I gotta do.”

Dean knows that Benny’s looking for absolution, and Dean’s not opposed to giving it, “You do what you gotta do, brother. I know you’re there if I need you.”

Benny nods, “Thanks, brother.”

“I’m going with him,” Jody adds, and Dean and Sam both stare at her in surprise, “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not an invalid, for god’s sakes, besides, no one should hunt without backup.”

The brothers share a look; she makes a good point.

Dean snorts and opens his mouth, Sam quickly intercedes, “Whatever Buffy reference you’re about to make, just, please don’t, for all of our sakes.”

Jody laughs and Benny and Dean both frown, though, for different reasons. 

“We’ve already told Emma,” Jody says, sobered and calm, “We’ve made sure she’s okay with it.”

Because Jody and Benny are responsible parental figures, unlike Dean, who runs off with his child’s killer without any forewarning. 

They’ve been making plans, the four of them, catching up and strategizing, dancing around the most important part of the conversation for the better part of an hour, and, now, there it is, staring them all in the face. Talking about his recent fuck ups is even more terrifying in light of the fact that it increasingly looks like he’s going to be flying solo with his daughter in less than forty-eight hours and for an unspecified period of time. The back of his throat burns with bile and he feels a hot and cold shock of panic race from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head before settling as a jittery, twisted tension in his chest.

Benny and Jody share a long look, the kind that contains entire conversations without a single word being spoken. Dean does that with Sam sometimes, he does that with Cas a lot. When they’ve reached a silent accord, it’s Jody who speaks, blunt, to the point. Bad news first. 

“She didn’t talk for three days after you left,” Jody states.

Dean blinks, the sick, shaky feeling intensifies. 

“Not even to me,” Benny adds with a frown, almost guilty, like he should have been able to make her feel comfortable even in such extremes. 

They take it in turns, painting a picture of the damage that he’s done as a father, as a person, Dean takes it in silence, letting their words wash over him, wave after wave after wave of guilt: 

“—she tore up her coloring book—”

“—wouldn’t eat—”

“—tried to follow after you…Benny caught her and brought her back…left her shoes…glass from the road—” 

“—couldn’t sleep—walked the floors with her at night…every lullaby I knew, but it didn’t do any good—”

“—started crying, wouldn’t stop…callin’ out for you and Cas…cut her hands on accident—”

“She started to get ‘better’ around the week mark,” Jody continues, her face hard. It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that Benny is holding her hand on the tabletop, and despite the layers upon layers of guilt that he’s suffocating under, he apparently still has it within himself to be a selfish enough dick that he can feel jealous. He wishes Cas were here, wishes he had Cas’ hand in his own, warm and dry and strong, gripping tight like he can’t bear to let Dean go, Cas’ eyes on him blue and sure and so, so deep. Dean can’t think about shit like that. What kind of asshole begrudges his friends (friends who fucking drop everything to come and take care of his kid because he is a fucking derelict fucking father) some measure of happiness with each other? What kind of asshole would begrudge those friends something because he was too fucking piss poor stupid to do something with someone when he had the chance? What kind of—?

“We figured it might be good to get her out some; went to a restaurant in town,” Benny adds, “she likes grilled cheese and pickles,” he chuckles softly, “They had a park with some ducks, she liked that, too.”

“I taught her how to shoot,” Jody admits, “I knew you probably wouldn’t want to do it yourself, but it seemed important for her to learn. She took the pistol apart and put the whole thing back together in about five minutes. She’s got good aim.”

“We went for a walk out in the bayou,” Benny adds, “been working with her on getting some control over her teeth and eyes so she can pass easier. She’s doin’ real good.”

“We did some drills. There were some machetes, and we read a lot of Dr. Suess. She’s been helping both of us with these texts from Bobby’s; she’s fluent in Enochian. It’s pretty incredible.”

“That’s—” Dean croaks, clears his throat, “that’s…Cas taught her that.”

Sam’s face turns so sorrowful that Dean can’t bear to look at him.

“I know, brother,” Benny says, compassion in his eyes.

Dean clears his throat, “I’m, ah, I’m really—thank you, both of you, for taking such good care of her. I really—It means a lot.”

Jody’s face twists into something sad, “Of course, Dean, it was a pleasure, really, she’s…she’s a really good kid.”

“Yeah, she—” Dean starts and then stops, pasting a smile on his face, “You know? I’m actually beat, I think I’m gonna just,” he gestures vaguely towards the hallway, “I’m gonna go crash for a little bit.”

“Of course,” Jody says with that understanding voice that makes Dean want either punch something or cry because it’s all too fucking much.

“Get some shut eye, man,” Sam says mouth tight with pity.

Dean flees before Benny can say something innocuous that throws him over the edge too. 

*

He closes the door to his room. It’s exactly the way he left it—blankets heaped into a kind of nest in the corner, some spare clothes that Jody grabbed for him lying on top of an old dresser against the far wall—except that it’s not because the last time he was here, his daughter didn’t hate him, not as much as she does now anyway. The last time he was here, she was starting to trust him. The last time he was in this room, he woke up with his child curled up against his side; he helped her do her hair and he read her a story, and now he’s gone and screwed that all to hell. 

He kicks off his boots, shucks off his topmost flannel, and rubs his hands hard over his face. He lies down, face in the pillow. He thinks he’s too upset to sleep, too unsettled, but he doesn’t factor in the whole ‘awake for almost forty hours minus a short nap in the car’ thing. It doesn’t take long for physical exhaustion to win out over emotional turmoil and drag him under.

He’s not sure for how long he sleeps, but he is sure that something is poking him awake. Later, Dean will be very grateful that he had the presence of mind to react to the wakeup call without pulling a weapon. When he flips over, his eyes forced wide against the gloom, trying to figure out where he is, what time it is, what the threat is: it takes him a moment to actually process what he’s seeing. It takes him another moment, in which he pinches his arm (to make sure that he’s really awake) and moves into a sitting position, to react. 

Emma stands in front of him on the very edge of his nest of blankets. She’s wearing pajamas, must be past bedtime then. Emma stares at him, her eyes aren’t glowing, it’s hard to make out her features in the darkness, but he’s afraid that if he moves too quickly that she’ll startle or disappear so he doesn’t go for the light. 

Dean stares at Emma, takes in as much of her as he can make out in the dim lighting. She’s barefooted and her hair is pulled back in a braid—Benny’s doing probably—her face is solemn, stony, and she’s holding her knife. Bunny is conspicuously absent. She just stands there, watching him, and Dean realizes after a moment, shaking minutely all over. Like she’s frightened.

They contemplate one another in the darkness, father and daughter, neither saying a word, neither making a move. It lasts maybe a minute maybe ten. 

“Emma,” Dean starts, finally, when he can’t quite stand it anymore, “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t respond. 

“I messed up,” he continues.

She doesn’t move.

“I really—” 

“You went away,” her voice is low and solemn, she articulates each word precisely. Emma has only ever spoken to Dean out of necessity. When an emergency situation has forced her to speak, or an emotional trauma has led her to break down and cry. She’s never outright spoken to him, not really, not since she was alive the first time. Dean knows that she can chatter on like other children her age—he’s heard her do it with Benny, with Cas, but Dean’s never heard her do it in English, she’s never addressed that ebullient babble at him. She’s talking to him now and her tone and delivery reminds him of Cas, of ‘important angel business’ Cas, where each word is measured and controlled because it’s part of a ‘higher purpose’. He wonders if Emma’s voice is so measured because she’s afraid, or because she’s trying to imitate Cas, or because she is attempting to speak to Dean as little as possible, or because she is trying so hard to get through whatever she needs to say without breaking into pieces.

“You went away,” she repeats and her eyes are shining in the dark, not an Amazonian glow, but a shimmering sheen of tears, “You said you wouldn’t go away.”

Dean doesn’t move, can’t even blink. Emma’s whole body is trembling, but she holds her chin high and she pins him with her stare.

“You said you wouldn’t go away,” she repeats, the words clipped, tight, sharp, each one lodges in Dean’s chest like a shard of glass; he wishes that she had just stabbed him when she walked in the room, that would have hurt less than this, “You promised, but you left.”

She pauses long enough to blink furiously and work her jaw.

“You left me.”

“Emma,” Dean’s voice cracks, as broken as he is, “Emma, I’m so—”

“You said we were a team,” she spits, the tears on her cheeks that catch the scant light from the window, “You said we would find Cas together, but you left.”

Emma’s voice rises, panicked, hurt, “You went away. You left me and you went away.”

“Emma,” Dean’s chest aches, it tears, his eyes burn and his throat tightens. 

“Why don’t you want me?” Emma’s lips tremble and she blinks furiously, frozen in place, “Why don’t you want me?”

Dean has recovered from a lot of things: he’s been killed and resurrected more times than he can count; he’s been shot and stabbed and stitched back together, he’s literally clawed his way out of his own grave, but he doesn’t think—he’s sure that he will never recover from this.

“Oh fuck, Emma,” he’s on his knees in front of her and all he wants is to hug her but she recoils away from him when he tries and starts crying in earnest. 

Dean rocks back on his heels fingers digging into his palms, “Emma, I want you.”

She shakes her head fiercely, “You don’t.”

“I do, Emma, I swear I do,” he promises, voice rough, “I want you, kiddo.”

“Then why did you go?” she almost yells, her eyes flash bright, golden, and she rubs at them furiously, like she doesn’t want to remind Dean of one of the reasons that he doesn’t or shouldn’t want her. She covers her eyes with her hand, trying to hide her features, and Dean breaks. Christ what has he done to her?

“Emma,” he tries, softly, gently, “Hey, Emma, can you look at me? Huh? C’mon.”

She sniffles and refuses to budge.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, feeling fucking helpless, “I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Not that she has much faith in any promise that Dean makes. 

She nods almost imperceptibly, hesitantly, eyes still firmly covered, and Dean, relieved, lets out a breath and very, very carefully, places a hand on her shoulder. She’s tense, like a spring coiled too tight. It’s a relief to have a hand on her, to have contact, confirmation that she’s alive if not actually okay. He’s gotta try to fix that. 

He tells her what he’s going to do before he does it; asks permission each step of the way, and he eventually, cautiously manages to get her settled on his lap, in the circle of his arms. 

“You didn’t do anything, ever, to make me not want you,” he says, rubbing a hand against her arm, against her hair, “You could never, ever, do something that would make me not want you. Okay?”

She tucks her face down, hunches up her shoulders.

Dean chews his bottom lip and swallows hard, “You don’t believe me and that’s my fault; I screwed up, Emma, I let you down. It’s my job to take care of you, to make sure you feel safe, that you feel cared about, that you got all the things you need. That’s my job and I fucked it up.”

He clears his throat and blinks hard, “I fucked up bad, kiddo. I shoulda never let you think for one fucking second that you weren’t good enough. I shoulda told you that I was going and where I was going and why,” he continues, “I shoulda never left the way that I did. I never meant for you to think that…that I didn’t want you, Emma.”

She still has a firm hand clasped over her eyes and she hasn’t said a word, but at least she’s listening. That’s progress.

“Emma, you are awesome: you’re smart and you’re funny and you’re brave; you’re loyal and you’re good, Emma, you’re so, so fucking good.”

“Course I want you, Emma,” he murmurs against her hair, “I’d be crazy not to.”

He takes a deep breath, “I went to go and help someone…there was a kid, who, well, he got into some trouble and he was…it was our job to take care of him and we kinda dropped the ball on that,” good job, Dean, please, keep talking about your awesome track record with abandoning children, “so we went to make sure he was okay.”

“Is he okay?” she asks very quietly. There’s that big old heart.

“He’s okay,” Dean confirms, “we made sure he got home to his mom, and he’s gonna maybe help us with Cas if he can. We left to go help him, and to—well to make sure that you would be safe.”

Emma moves her hand and he’s not sure if it’s because she’s curious or because she’s less frightened he’ll reject her now because her eyes are a quiet, human brown. He hopes it’s the former but is pretty damn sure it’s the latter, and that just shows how much work he has to do to fix this. 

“You know how in Purgatory, the Leviathan hated everyone, but they really hated Cas?”

Emma’s brow furrows, memory, nerves, worry about Cas warring for domination in her expression.

“Well here,” Dean continues swallowing back some of his own worry, “here demons are basically the Leviathan and they hate me and Sam as much as the Leviathan hated Cas.”

Emma frowns, confused.

Dean swallows this part is hard, “They would—they have hurt people that we care about to get to us. They could have hurt you to get to me.”

Emma blinks, perhaps astonished that she could be considered leverage to hurt Dean. Like it’s odd, a revelation to think that he would care enough about her to do anything, absolutely anything, to insure her safety. 

“So we made a deal with them, so that they can’t hurt you,” he brushes a thumb against her cheek and she blinks, “that’s why I was gone so long. It took a long time to make sure that they weren’t cheating.”

“I left, Emma, but it wasn’t because I didn’t want you and it wasn’t because I wanted to go; it was because I was trying to do the right thing, and I was trying to keep you safe.”

She stares at him, but it’s different this time, it’s brighter, sharper, clearer.

“I messed up,” he admits freely, “I messed up really fucking bad, but I’m gonna try to make it better. I swear to you. My whole life, I never wanted anything as much as I want you.”

Her eyes flash bright in surprise, a sudden golden glow and she moves to cover them, but Dean intercepts, “Kiddo, hey,” she struggles against his hold, “hey, listen, Emma, listen—you don’t have to hide from me. I want you, kid, that means all of you. You’re special, Emma, that’s not a bad thing. It doesn’t change a damn thing. You’re you. I want you.”

She contemplates that for a moment, frowning, flexing her fingers.

“Are you gonna go away again?” he voice is small when she asks. 

Dean has to very carefully word this, “I’m gonna try really hard not to. I can’t promise that I won’t have to leave for something at some point; but I will do better; I’ll tell you first, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, and I’ll come back.

“But you gotta know, that me going away for a day or two when it’s really important, you gotta know that that has nothing to do with how much I care about you.”

Emma searches his face for a long, long minute.

“I’m gonna make this better,” he promises, “I’m gonna be better.”

She works her mouth and doesn’t blink. Dean holds his breath. He swears he can almost hear the rapid beating of her heart. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady and her eyes are wide. 

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last chapter was incredibly short, and this one is incredibly long, so hopefully the next one will be somewhere in between. As always, thank you for all of your kindness and encouragement. I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	36. Hello, Goodbye

Dean wakes up gently, he doesn’t startle into consciousness like he usually does; it’s more gradual than that. He becomes aware of his position, details coming into focus as he emerges from sleep, relaxed and steady. There is a crick in his lower back and another in his neck, but other than that he’s more comfortable and more at ease than he has been in a long while. Emma is a heavy, warm weight sprawled across his chest, curled up tight against him. Her knee is sharp where it digs just slightly into his stomach, the crown of her head rests just beneath his chin, and her claws are out, woven into the threads of his t-shirt unconsciously, keeping him there with all the means at her disposal. She doesn’t need those extra measures, there’s nowhere else in the damn world that Dean would rather be right now. He’s not going anywhere. 

Emma doesn’t stir when the tension of wakefulness slips back into Dean’s muscles, she just clings to him as she rises and falls with his inhales and exhales. He doesn’t get up right away, like he probably should, instead, he allows himself a moment of peace, listening to Emma’s breathing, slow and rhythmic. He closes his eyes and soaks up the warmth of her, the way that she’s pliable and soft in his arms. There had been a moment there when he didn’t think he would have this again. He’s lucky, luckier than he has any right to be. He holds her tightly, hand spread wide against her back, her bony should blades expanding and contracting beneath his palm. He’s gonna make things better, he promises her silently, fiercely. 

The light coming in through the window is accompanied by bird song. When Dean opens his eyes again, it’s clear that he’s slept—they’ve both slept—later than is their custom. He wants to hide out in this little cocoon with his kid, safe and secure and peaceful; he wants to pretend that all the rest of the world isn’t out there. He wants to pretend, just for a little bit; let it all go away; forget about the fucked up past, the fucked up present, the uncertain future, but he can’t. He knows he can’t. He glances down at the top of Emma’s messy hair, her face gentled in sleep. Just because he can’t pretend, doesn’t mean that his kid can’t have the illusion a little bit longer. 

He bites his lip, braces himself, and proceeds to extricate himself from Emma’s hold as carefully and gradually as possible. He moves slowly, loosening her grip on his t-shirt, disentangling claws and fingers, cushioning her head as he transitions her from his shoulder to the pillow. Every time she squirms, he pauses, holds his breath, and waits for her to settle again before he moves onto the next step, until finally, she’s bunked down under his blankets. He smooths a hand against her hair, brushing a stray strand away from her face, and he pulls the topmost blanket up to cover her shoulders more securely. She stirs and blinks up at him groggily, and his mouth twists into a tender smile, warmth in his chest. He leans down over her, lays a steadying hand against her shoulder.

“Go back to sleep, kiddo,” he whispers, “I’m not goin’ far.” 

She squints up at him and sniffles, rubs a tired fist against her face, before nodding and burying her face into his pillow. He chuckles quietly as he grabs his boots and tiptoes out of the room.

*

Sam leaves just before noon. 

He loads his things into the truck that Dean lifted in Maine while Emma eats breakfast and the rest of the grownups drink strong coffee. 

Sam says goodbye to Jody with a strong hug, a promise to text when he gets where he’s going, and genuine wishes for good luck on both sides. He says goodbye to Benny with a handshake that is strong to the point of painful and a challenging glare. 

Sam offers Emma a smile, wobbly but earnest, as he brushes his hair out of his eyes and shifts on his feet.

“Uh, bye, Emma,” he says, “It was really nice to, ah, meet you…again...”

Emma stares at Sam without blinking and continues chewing her cereal methodically. She says nothing, the man in front of her may as well be invisible. When it’s clear that she won’t respond, Sam clears his throat and retreats.

Dean isn’t quite sure how to say goodbye to his brother. It would be better if this were a hunt, if Sam were going off to take care of ghoul nest or a ghost. He would know what to do, he would know how to worry. This feels like Stanford all over again. Years later, a lifetime later, for both of them, but Sam is going off to play normal and Dean can’t quite believe he’ll come back.

They linger awkwardly near the truck. 

“For what it’s worth,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I hope things go okay with your girl.”

Sam smile is strained, “Thanks.”

“Well, you better hit the road, huh?” Dean forces a grin onto his face.

Sam nods, “Dean, whatever happens with Amelia, you have to know that I’m gonna come help you find Cas. All right?”

Dean will believe it when he sees it, “I know, Sammy.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

They hug, and Dean shoves Sam towards the driver’s side when they break apart. 

“Hit the road, dude, you’re burnin’ daylight.”

“I’ll call you,” Sam promises.

Dean stands in the yard and watches him drive away, when he turns back towards the house Emma is staring at him from the window. She doesn’t scurry away; she meets his gaze and holds it. Neither of them pretends she wasn’t watching to see if he would drive away and leave her again, too. 

*

The rest of the day is split between packing, strategizing, and saying goodbye. Benny and Jody plan to head south in two days’ time, and Dean and Emma are going to leave tomorrow morning. The adults, particularly Jody, thought that it would be best for Emma to do the leaving this time, instead of being left. 

They sit down and explain things to her, all three of them, and she doesn’t respond verbally nor does she cry. She turns taciturn and solemn (more solemn than usual) and spends the rest of the day alternatively affixed to either Jody or Benny’s sides, all the while keep a wary eye on Dean, making sure that he doesn’t scurry away while her attention is focused elsewhere. It must be, Dean reflects, a fucking exhausting way to live, especially for such a fucking little kid. He tries to stay in her sights at all times to alleviate her worries as best he can. 

Benny pulls Dean aside at one point, while Emma and Jody are reading.

He frowns, his face shadowed, shoulders hunkered up by his ears. He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“I’m damn sorry I ain’t goin’ with you, brother.”

Dean shakes his head, lays a hand on Benny’s shoulder, “You got stuff you gotta do, I understand that.”

Benny’s mouth twists, “You know that if you need anything, I’ll be there. You just say the word.”

Dean offers a small smile, nods, “I know. Same goes for you.”

Benny smiles, “Don’t have any doubt about it,” his face turns more serious, “Dean, I know that Cas and me didn’t always get on, but I hope you find ‘im…and, if, when this is done, if you still ain’t got the angel back, and you need me…”

“I’ll call,” Dean promises, hoping that it won’t come to that. Benny searches his face and nods. 

Dean’s not good with the sentimental stuff, not out loud, but Benny has been good to him, has been good to his kid, and Dean won’t ever forget that. Can’t ever repay that. He hopes that comes through when he pulls Benny into a hug.

“You take care of our girl, you here?” Benny says, slapping Dean on the back.

Dean’s voice is rough when he lets go, “I will.”

Benny looks at him closely, “Dean, you made some mistakes with her, I’ll give you that, but you gotta remember, Cas trusted you to take care of her, so did I, so does Jody, so does Emma, or she wouldn’t be lettin’ you take her.”

Dean shifts on his feet, rubs his neck.

“We all trust you to take care of her,” Benny lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezes once and lets go, “When you gonna start trusting yourself?”

*

“Julie’s cabin is in Vermont, I know it’s not Maine, but it’s somewhere to stay long term legally,” Jody tells Dean, “She’s been trying to get me to stay out there for years, and she’s more than happy to help out a friend in need…Just make sure to keep things clean, no blood anywhere.”

“Jody, this is too much, seriously, I can’t ask you to—”

This is the fifteenth time Dean has tried to decline help and offer gratitude and it’s the fifteenth time that Jody has cut him off.

“Stop it, all right,” she says gripping his arm, “You didn’t ask, I offered. And before you try to thank me, again, I’ve been happy to help,” she smiles over to where Benny and Emma are playing on the floor, “she’s a great kid.”

“Yeah, she is,” he agrees, and then, because he’s an asshole, he adds, “and Benny’s not too hard on the eyes, either.”

That earns him an eye roll and a swat to the shoulder, but Jody doesn’t disagree. 

“Seriously, Jody, I can’t tell you how much—”

Jody interrupts, “Seriously, Dean, stop. If anything, I should be thanking you.”

“For making you drive cross country to clean up my mistakes?”

“You didn’t make me do anything—don’t make me regret what I’m saying,” she stares into the distance, “it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to…after I lost my son and my husband, then Bobby…it’s been a long time since I’ve let myself feel some things,” she bites her lip and takes deep breath, “it was good for me, being around Emma, getting to know her. It gave me some hope, you know?”

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, watching across the room as Emma smiles at Benny, “Yeah, I do.”

“Anyway,” she clears her throat, “if you need anything, anything at all, you call me, okay? Don’t think for one second that you’re alone in this, Dean, we’re here with you,” she searches his face, “and if I find out that you’ve been acting like an idiot and trying to do everything yourself I will hunt you down.”

He laughs, “I don’t doubt it.”

She shakes her head and pulls him into a hug. 

*

They spend the last night on the porch. Emma chasing fireflies and frogs while the adults look on. Dean gives Jody some advice about nests, and Benny makes dry comments until Dean asks Benny what plans to do after he takes care of his sire, and Jody and Benny share a look before changing the subject. Dean knows that they’ve talked about it then, the ‘maybe someday after’ but they haven’t made any decisions. Well, they haven’t made any decisions, or they have and they just don’t want to tell him because his situation is kind of fucked. He doesn’t pry, he goes back to watching Emma dart around the lawn in the twilight. Dean’s own ‘maybe someday’ is pending, way outside his reach. Maybe someday Dean will pick Emma up from first grade in the Impala, and he and Cas will help her with her homework. Maybe someday Dean will cook them all dinner in a home that’s theirs and the three of them will take turns reading Harry Potter aloud before putting Emma to sleep. Maybe someday Dean will take Cas’ hand and leads him across the hall to a bedroom that they share. 

He shakes himself out of that headspace. It’s too impossible, too far away, too good for him. He thinks that Benny and Jody, two of his best friends, part of his family, they probably have a better shot. He’s seen the way they look at one another, the way they help each other, the way they’re sitting together right now, and they deserve some happiness. He isn’t gonna touch it; doesn’t want to fuck it up.

Dean expected Emma to want to bunk with Benny or Jody, he’s spent the evening bracing himself for that, so he’s surprised when she comes into his room, Bunny in her arms, after she brushes her teeth. He smiles and makes a space for her to crawl into. She makes herself comfortable and asks him to sing. 

*  
Emma’s farewells take place the next morning, while Dean makes sure they’ve got everything ready. 

Benny and Emma’s goodbye is almost entirely in French, with Emma wrapped in big strong arms, her own skinny ones clinging to Benny’s neck. 

Jody says goodbye kneeling in front of Emma on the floor of the entrance way, taking Emma’s face in her hands and placing a kiss on her forehead before pulling her into a hug. Dean tries very hard to give them privacy but he still hears snatches of their conversation: “—if you need anything at all—” “—we love you, kiddo—” “—you are amazing and so, so strong—” “—we’ll see each other again—”.

Dean works his jaw in a concerted effort not to tear up at the exchange. Eventually, the Impala is loaded down with all of their stuff: blankets, pillows, two duffle bags full of clothes, tomes of lore, a cooler full of snacks, and a canvas bag filled with coloring books, puzzles, and stories of an age appropriate variety (this last is stowed in the foot well of the passenger side).

Finally, with a last hug from Benny (Emma plastered against his front and Benny’s arms squeezing tight, tight, tight, around her middle) and a kiss from Jody, against her forehead with a gentle hand brushing her hair away from her face. Dean takes Emma’s hand, the one not holding Bunny, and leads her to the car. He helps her in and buckles her seatbelt. He gives Jody and Benny a wave before he slides behind the wheel. They wave back: Benny has wrapped an arm around Jody’s shoulder. 

He closes the door and he looks over at Emma, who is staring straight ahead, as if afraid to look back, she’s holding onto Bunny tightly, a death grip around the little guy. Dean swallows, starts the car. She looks over at him then. Her eyes are damp but her face is determined. 

“You ready, Em?” he asks.

Her tiny jaw clenches and then she nods, once. Dean offers her a lopsided smile, puts the car into drive, and hits the gas. 

“All right, then.”

Then it’s just the two of them, father and daughter, out on the open road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, as always, for your support and encouragement. This fic would be nothing without you.


	37. North Star (Part I)

For the first forty miles or so, Emma remains silent. She stares out the window, both of her arms wrapped tightly around Bunny, holding him to her chest. She sits perfectly straight, cross legged, and she doesn’t make a peep. When Dean asks if she wants to choose the music, she shakes her head minutely. When he asks if she’s okay, she shrugs. When he tries to initiate a conversation about the weather (the weather for fuck’s sake), she doesn’t even bother to respond, and Dean clears his throat and takes the hint. 

He puts on some soothing bluesy station, drums his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel, and bides his time. 

The sun rises fully as they drive through backwoods, making their way to a thoroughfare, and then a main highway. The morning mist lingers, sticky and cloying. It’s humid, still cool, but there is a promise of heat carried on the breeze that flows through the open windows of the Impala. It’s gonna be a swampy scorcher before the day is done. Dean hopes they can outrun it. 

It’s a little surreal to be back behind the wheel of the Impala. How many times in Purgatory had he imagined being reunited with his Baby? How many times had he dared to imagine Emma riding with him? Too many, not enough, and yet the reality (as so often happens) is something starkly different. Any delusions that Dean had harbored of Emma being instantly soothed by worn leather and rumbling engine are dispelled almost instantly. The picture of her sleeping peacefully in the back seat is extinguished before they even make it out of the drive. The Impala doesn’t mean anything to Emma. It’s just a hunk of metal wheeling her, once again, into the unknown, no different than the truck they stole in Maine. She’s tense in the passenger seat, though thankfully not as tense as she would have been if Dean had actually followed appropriate child safety precautions: he momentarily imagines Emma wrenching her way out of a car safety seat Incredible Hulk style, and concludes that he was correct to forgo that particular shit show. It’s safer for all parties concerned if Emma rides shotgun as his co-pilot. 

A billboard saves Dean (saves them both, really) from the tense, awkward silence that pervades the cabin. It’s a sign like any of the others that they’ve passed, a little bit worn, weather beaten. The images are overblown and cartoonish in that garish, but ultimately loveable, seventies sort of way.

NOTHING SAYS HOME LIKE UNCLE BILLY’S FLAPJACKS, it reads, 5 MILES.

The words are accompanied by an illustrated stack of golden pancakes drenched in syrup and a smiling man (Uncle Billy, Dean presumes) in the background.

“Hey, Emma,” Dean asks after a moment, “You hungry?”

*

Uncle Billy’s Flapjacks feels more like a B&B than a diner. They pull into the gravel parking lot, and Dean appreciates how clean it looks, fresh, homey: dusty blue shingles, white shutters, and a little garden lining the front walk. Emma looks at him with a suspicious, little line between her eyebrows when they come to a stop. 

Dean smiles at her. Sam may have his puppy eyes, but Dean? Dean has his smile. It’s a practiced smile, a charming one; dimpled at the corners, guaranteed to please, placate, and/or charm the bejesus out of approximately ninety-eight percent of the population. Unfortunately, Emma is in the two percent and her nose crinkles in the face of Dean’s attempt at charm. To his credit, he keeps on grinning at her. Daddy-daughter breakfast, he can do this. Fake it till you make it and all that shit. 

“C’mon, kiddo, let’s get some grub.”

Emma hesitates, arms tightening around her stuffed animal, not even bothering to undo her hated seatbelt.

“What about Bunny?” she asks accusatorily, absently soothing Bunny’s ears. 

“He can come, if you want,” Dean responds seriously, meeting her eyes, “or he can wait for us here. It’s your call.”

Emma’s mouth twists as she considers her options, and Dean watches her attentively.

“No one is gonna mess with the Impala,” he promises.

Emma whispers into Bunny’s head, something Dean can’t hear, and then tucks him safely and carefully in the foot well, behind her canvas bag of books and assorted knickknacks.

Emma doesn’t launch precipitously from the car, she is much slower and more calculating than she was the last time they went on a drive. She waits near the headlights while Dean stretches his arms above his head, working out the kinks in his spine. 

There are only a few other diners inside: an elderly couple eating waffles, speaking softly to one another, and holding hands; a group of college aged kids swapping notes over a few textbooks, looking like they haven’t slept in at least a day; and a solitary man with a salt and pepper moustache reading a paper in the corner. Dean and Emma sit at a table near a window. Their server, a middle aged women with sandy brown hair tied back in a bun and a name tag that reads Charlotte, gives them menus and remarks on how cute Emma is (“Aren’t you just a sweetie” “I could just eat you up”) before she walks away to let them decide. 

Emma studies her menu avidly and Dean studies Emma. She scrutinizes all of the options carefully, chewing on her lower lip as she does so. Her small, capable fingers, linger before turning the page, like she wants to absorb every single detail before she moves on. He’s blown away by her; the reality of her. Emma is a person: this miraculous, little, miniature, totally living, human being, with skin and bones and thoughts and feelings, and she’s right in front of him. His chest tightens suddenly and painfully, leaves him feeling almost woozy while he watches her do this totally innocuous thing, except that it’s not innocuous because it’s Emma doing it, and nothing she could ever do could be blasé because she’s Emma. He has a kid. Dean has a kid and his kid is fucking awesome just by existing. She’s strong and fierce and beautiful. 

Dean sits there, completely overwhelmed by the enormity of this fact, this feeling that’s expanded through his whole fucking torso and well up into his throat which feels tight and burning. His eyes are wide open and he’s got a doofy look on his face (between insanely proud and vaguely shell-shocked), when Emma looks up and catches him staring at her. He clears his throat and tries to school his features and pretend that he was not just being a fucking weirdo, quickly averting his gaze and studying the offerings like there will be a test later.

“What d’you think?” he asks after a minute or two, in which he tries to regain normalcy and dispel the sudden overpowering urge to scoop his kid up out of her seat and hug her as tightly as he can, something that Emma would decidedly not be on board with. 

Emma shrugs, twirling her silverware against the tabletop. Dean is half convinced that Emma considers butter knives to be a personal insult.

Dean tries a smile, less practiced, more spontaneous, more real. He leans forward elbows on the table, “Aw, c’mon, you gotta want something.”

Emma shifts in her seat, works her jaw for a moment, clearly deciding if Dean can and/or should be trusted with her breakfast order. 

“Pancakes.”

Dean’s smile broadens considerably, “A girl after my own heart.”

The corners of Emma’s mouth twitch, but she quickly brings her expression back to neutral before a smile can emerge. 

“You know what’s even more awesome than pancakes?” Dean persists.

Emma blinks once, confused by his question. She cocks an eyebrow and levels him with a skeptical stare, as if to say that nothing could be better than pancakes.

Dean lays down the trump card, “Chocolate chip pancakes.”

Emma’s eyes widen considerably. 

“Wanna give ‘em a try?”

She considers, twirling her knife again, the dull point barely capable of denting the table top. She feigns disinterest, but Dean knows that she’s intrigued, interested, tempted by his proposal. When she finally nods and ducks her chin, Dean wants to punch the air in triumph. 

He orders their food because when Charlotte directs her questions to Emma, Emma essentially stares her down without saying a word (Dean thinks that Emma may have taken offense to the whole ‘eat you up’ thing). The serious, blank, slightly predatory stare of a four year old Amazon warrior is enough to make Charlotte stutter and shoot a worrying look at Dean, before he jumps in to save the poor woman. He offers her a winning smile, which she, a testament to his ninety eight percent success rate, accepts and returns. He orders two orange juices, a coffee, a stack of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon for Emma, and a stack of waffles with bacon for himself. When Charlotte leaves, everything carefully noted on a yellow notepad, Emma dons a self-satisfied smirk, and Dean leans back in his chair, thinking that his kid, in addition to being awesome, might also be a little shit. Reflecting on himself, Cas, and Sammy, hell, even Benny, no one can really say that she doesn’t come by it honestly. 

While they wait for breakfast, Dean scores a spare pen from Charlotte and uses the back of his placemat to draw a rough sketch of the East Coast. He’s not Michelangelo (but he’s sure as shit better than Sam), and you can get the genarl gist of the image. He narrates as he draws, outlining the route they’re going to take, shows Emma where they’re going. He maps out highways and interstates, points out cities they’ll cross or come close to, he marks their destination in Vermont with an X and their end point in Maine with a star. Emma follows along avidly, leaning across the table to watch his movements and memorize the route. 

When breakfast comes, they break apart. It smells amazing, mouthwatering, but Dean forgoes his first bite in order to watch Emma take hers. It’s completely worth it. 

The first mouthful of chocolate chip pancake has her eyes popping wide, her eyebrows arching as high on her forehead as they’ll go, and a look of pure and unadulterated wonder across her face. Dean laughs. He snaps a picture with his phone while Emma digs into her breakfast. 

“Told ya,” he remarks, as he tucks into his own meal.   
*

They’re both in a better mood after they’ve eaten. Emma climbs back into the passenger seat with a lightness that hadn’t been there earlier. She makes sure Bunny is safe, before she pulls him into her lap and pets his ears. She doesn’t hold the little guy in a death grip, and she only puts up a token protest when Dean insists that she buckle up. He feels some of the tension he’s been carrying for the past day (days? weeks? years?) ease out of his shoulders as Emma settles into a more relaxed posture in the passenger’s seat. 

When he asks if she wants to pick the music this time, she leans forward to fiddle with the dials, going through every single station and then back again before she chooses on one that she likes. It’s playing oldies, and Emma appears content to listen to the Mamas and the Papas as they make their way back out onto the road. She looks over at Dean, and she almost smiles when he sings along, comically loud, to try to make her laugh. He grins back, winks, and Emma holds his gaze for a second, unafraid, before turning to look out of her window again. Dean makes a decision then, for better or for worse: they’re going to make the most of this road trip. They’re not gonna do what they did last time; they’re not gonna reenact crucial traumatizing scenes from Dean’s childhood; they’re not gonna drive all day, every day until they reach their destination, exhausted and stressed; they aren’t gonna break routines and leave Emma feeling more uprooted and tense than she already is; they aren’t gonna race their way up the east coast like a fucking bat out of hell. No, they’re gonna take their time. They’re gonna stop to rest. They’re gonna stop to eat. If she sees one of those stupid ass signs for some god-damned tourist trap—the ones that Sam and Dean used to point out when they were still small and still young enough to hope that maybe Dad would stop—and asks to go, Dean will take them there and buy a fucking commemorative spoon. 

Dean is not delusional. He has not suddenly conned himself into thinking that Emma actually likes his company. He has not by any means forgotten why they’re making this trip. Cas is waiting for them at the end (hopefully at the end, please let him be at the end). He’s the bright star that Dean had sketched to mark the finish line on his impromptu map. Dean hasn’t stopped wanting Cas, hasn’t stopped thinking about Cas, hasn’t stopped missing him—he misses Cas like part of him has been ripped clean out of his chest and the space left behind is aching and raw still—not for a single damn day since the idiot pushed them through and saved their asses. But Dean has to be honest. He’s no closer to figuring out a way to get Cas back now than he was when he and Emma landed disoriented and grief-stricken on a forest floor in Maine. He’s working on it, he has people working on it, but at this point, he might as well be clueless on the road making sure that his daughter gets eight hours of sleep at night, as be clueless while forcing her through more emotional and physical trauma. Cas, he thinks, would want Dean to do best for Emma regardless of the circumstances. So that’s what Dean is gonna to do. 

*

Sam has texted him twice since he left. Once to say that he’d made it to Texas, and once to let him know that he was going to see Amelia tomorrow. Dean had replied briefly, giving him an update and refusing to pry into his brother’s drama. If Sam wants to share, he’ll share. Dean isn’t gonna fall in for some cryptic shit. 

He shoots Jody (and by proxy Benny) the pic he snapped of Emma eating her breakfast when they stop for gas later in the afternoon. 

Linda Tran has apparently decided that to repay Dean for the safe return of her son by bequeathing him with all the parental wisdom she possesses. It’s like he signed up for some kind of ‘inspirational and practical advice for first time parents’ text alert system. She messages him at least twice a day. Things ranging from appropriate cognitive development exercises, nutrition for the growing child, and the best way to prepare for college. It is, honestly, both incredibly kind, and absolutely terrifying. He thinks there might be a test later. He thanks her politely, and he thinks that Mrs. Tran (she’s too intimidating to call Linda) is waiting for the moment when Dean finally breaks and falls at her feet with every paralyzing, heart stopping, overwhelming question and worry he has. She probably doesn’t have long to wait. 

*

Emma likes going places. After being forced to hide out in the truck during the last road trip, spending most of her life in a hell dimension, and then being sequestered at the Haunted Mansion, she seems to relish the fact that she can explore, even if it’s only a little bit. She’s still wary of people (with good reason), but after time spent with Benny and Jody she’s also more sure of herself, and she’s back to carrying herself with the poise and an unwavering stare that distinguished her bearing in Purgatory. He catches her sometimes glaring like Cas or moving like Benny does when she senses a threat. It’s a punch in the gut seeing them in her. 

Emma is curious, and Dean knows, from both his own experiences with kids, and from watching Cas and Benny interacting with her, that he should take advantage of that curiosity, take note, turn simple shit into teaching moments. When they stop for gas, she clambers out of the car and follows Dean like a shadow. She still isn’t super comfortable speaking to him, and he, perhaps more than anyone, gets that, but he can see in her eyes that she’s got questions as she considers everything with calculating eyes. He guesses her questions, and answers what she doesn’t ask. He explains the different types of gas they sell, and why they need it, where it comes from, and how putting the wrong kind in will fuck up the engine. Noting her puzzled look, his grins lopsidedly and pops the hood. He pulls over a crate from the attendant stand, and, when she clambers up, he’s careful to keep her from actually touching things. He shows her how to check the oil (he actually should check it given that Sam has had custody of his Baby for a year). 

“See how it’s clear?”

She nods.

“Means we’re good,” he wipes his hand on a rag, “if the oil is low or gunked up, it’ll fuck up the engine. See this…”

He points out the different parts and explains their purposes. Emma follows along intently. She’s grinning despite herself, and Dean grins back. There’s a swoop in his stomach, a tightness in his chest. He’s done this before. The first time, Dean was barely tall enough to reach into the engine himself, and Sam was still gladly tagging along at Dean’s heels, standing on his tiptoes to peer beneath the Impala’s hood while their dad slept off a hunt and a bottle of whiskey in their motel room. The second time, happened years later, when Dean’s days were literally numbered. He and Sam sat together on the side of a dirt road, two bottles of beer, and a silent promise that Sam would take care of Baby, would take care of himself, when Dean was gone. Dean remembers doing this with Ben in the driveway of the house he shared with Lisa, when taking care of the Impala was more habit, more hobby, more ritual, than necessity. He and Ben would work on her on lazy Sunday afternoons, Ben standing on an apple crate, smiling widely and without reservation, passing Dean tools while Zeppelin played on the radio and the summer sun beat down on their necks. 

This so similar, yet so completely different. He compares Sam’s goofy grin and Ben’s easy smile, with Emma’s studied caution. He wonders how much Sam remembers. Wonders if Ben, despite a memory swipe, can still find the carburetor, still knows his way around an engine like Dean taught him. He wonders if one day, not too far off, when Ben has a driver’s license and lifts the hood of the car he’s looking to buy, he’ll get a sense of de-ja-vu. Or maybe the mind wipe came complete with fake memories in which Dean’s role is played by an uncle or a neighbor or an ex of Lisa’s, and Ben won’t find it strange at all. Dean wonders if he’ll ever tell Emma that she had a brother, explain what happened to him. 

He shakes himself out of it, tunes into the present, focuses on the small girl by his side. Emma alternates between watching him wide-eyed and contemplating Baby’s insides. He thinks that she and the Impala are bonding, and he chuckles to himself: his Baby and his baby, making nice. 

When the tank is full, he helps her hop down, closes the hood, and makes sure they’re all set to go. 

“When you’re older,” he tells her, trying to quell his own enthusiasm, trying not to show how much the offer means, “if you want, I’ll show you how to build one.”

Emma’s eyes spark with interest, startled into speech by her own enthusiasm, “Really?”

Dean smiles so wide that hurts his cheeks, “Sure thing, kiddo.”

*

They stop driving in the late afternoon, Dean turns off the highway, finds his way to a hotel, the kind that has free continental breakfast and room service. He throws their duffels over his shoulder while Emma carries her stuffed rabbit and her canvas bag, following closely behind him. He checks them in, and Emma takes in every inch of the lobby with critical eyes, looking for the obvious exits, the available weaponry, the potential threats amongst the clientele. 

“C’mon, kiddo,” he says once he’s finished with the concierge, two plastic key cards in his hand. 

Emma spares one last evaluative glance around, before she follows him to the elevator, which she surprisingly finds captivating. She actually looks her age for once, wide eyed with wonder, when the silver doors slide open and Dean tells her she can hit the button that will take them to their floor. He tries really hard to hide his smile when Emma jabs the number four decisively with her pointer finger. 

The rooms is all fluffy white comforters and decorative pillows and a HD TV. Emma has never seen such twenty-first century luxury in real time, and Dean’s rarely experienced it himself. There is something almost titillating in marring this uppity landscape with salt lines and the miniature occult library packed in his bag. Emma clambers up onto the bed nearest the window and places Bunny in a place of honor on top of the six feathery down pillows. Dean drops the bags and immediately fishes the do not disturb sign from the top drawer of the bedside table and hangs it on the door. 

“What d’you say we get this place set up and then grab some lunch?”

Emma hops off the bed and darts over to where Dean keeps the salt and assorted hexbags in in the side pocket of his bag and then scurries off to line the window, while Dean takes the door. Emma gets a little line between her eyebrows while she works; she wants to do it just right, and, though Dean instinctively wants to ask if she needs any help, he refrains because he knows that Emma likes to do this part by herself, that it makes her feel more secure, more in control, and that she needs that. Hell, Dean feels like that about the wards sometimes, too, like he can’t really be sure they’re okay, that they’re really safe, unless he’s laid them down himself, unless he knows for sure that they’ve been done up perfect, and even then he’ll check them twice before he’ll even think of sleeping. 

When he finishes up on the door and the corners of the room, he inspects her work, not because he doesn’t trust her to lay the signs right (she knows most of them better than he does and also knows a fuck ton that he’s never seen before), but because he wants to makes sure that she hasn’t in any way, shape, or form tried to lay down blood sigils. The idea of Emma hurting herself, even in a way that, for a hunter, for an Amazon, in the context of her life, is all too common, makes his skin crawl. She gives him a smug look, arms crossed over her chest, and chin tilted upwards when he’s finished his inspection, and pronounces that she did a damn good job. 

She darts ahead of him down the hallway, eager, he suspects, to be the first to reach the elevator and push the button again. Dean is just glad that her excitement has either superseded or delayed her realization that elevators are basically giant metal death traps. He’s not gonna bring it up, that’s for damn sure. Not when something so simple has his daughter bouncing on the balls of her feet with a guileless excitement that radiates out from her little body and provokes a direct, instantaneous, and almost overwhelming effect on his heart. 

They drive around for a little bit, Emma straining against her seatbelt to peer out of the window and take in all the sights that small town, middle of nowhere America has to offer her. It’s not the isolation of the bayou, or the monotony of the highway, or the rotting wilderness of Purgatory, which makes it new for her. Dean doesn’t know if her observations are motivated by wariness or enthusiasm, but he’s almost enraptured by her curiosity. She’s clearly focused, but her expression doesn’t betray her thoughts. Emma’s eyes are open and lined with curiosity. They shine with intelligence and she follows everything beyond the window with interest. The truth is that, even if Dean doesn’t actually know what the hell his kid is thinking, he feels nothing but proud of her. He watches the tilt of her head, the keenness of her gaze, the way that her hair gets blown around by the wind, hiding and revealing her face, which, every day looks healthier, better color and a smattering of freckles. She’s started to lose the pallor of Purgatory, the pinch of hunger to her cheeks, the tightness of pain around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She looks more and more like a normal little kid, living a life safe and sound, with fresh air and sunshine, just like it always should have been…

They pass gas stations and fast food restaurants, circle through housing developments, glide by bus stops and parks, middle schools and little mom and pop hardware stores, a garden center. Emma absorbs it all through the open window of the passenger’s side while Dean sets a leisurely place, drums his fingers against the sleek paint of the Impala’s door, and tries to pretend that he’s not watching his kid like a hawk: half because he can’t believe this is real and doesn’t want to miss a damn second of it and half because he’s afraid she’s gonna jump out the window whenever they stop at a red light. 

After a while Dean circles back around to a Target he saw near their hotel and pulls into the parking lot.

Emma turns her gaze to him curious and a little puzzled.

Dean clears his throat, “I don’t know about you,” he offers, “but I could use some shoes that actually fit.”

Emma cocks her head and frowns: first at Dean, then at her feet, which she experimentally kicks against the seat. She looks back up at Dean with a smile. 

Dean grins despite internally pummeling himself for not having realized sooner that Emma’s aversion to footwear has as much to do with being unused to the confinement after years of going barefoot, as it does with pinched toes and scraped heels, with blisters that (for Emma) go through a full cycle of healing within a few hours rather than a few days. Even with the lack of physical evidence, Dean should have known, should have realized much more quickly. Not just because he’s a parent now and it’s his job to notice this shit, but because he spent the ages of ten to fourteen (when growth spurts were relentless and he hadn’t yet mastered the art of skillfully stealing sneakers) dealing with constantly too small, too tight shoes that left him with blisters on his toes and heels and uncomfortable cramping. He should have picked up on the signs. 

He tries not to let his self-disgust show; Emma is too close to genuinely happy and excited about something so basic, and Dean refuses to bring her down from that. He continues kicking himself on the inside and pastes a sunny smile on his face. 

Emma doesn’t ride in the cart. She gives him a cold sate when he suggests it. She does however, stick close to his side, afraid to let him stray too far: like maybe Dean will wander away and she’ll lose him in the crowd, or he’ll take a momentary lapse of attention as the opportunity to make a break for it. Dean has the same fears. They’re on the same page. 

It takes a surprisingly quick amount of time to figure out Emma’s shoe size now that they can actually measure here feet against one of those metal sizer things and she can actually try things on. She calculates the measurements herself, and she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet in each new pair of shoes, jumping and flexing, testing her mobility, while Dean observes. He offers advice about ankle support and cushioning and what’s best for running or rough landings. Emma solemnly accepts his opinions; one warrior to another and all that. 

Kids’ shoes, Dean discovers, are largely decorative rather than functional, at least in terms of what a seasoned hunter would need on the job. Granted, most kids (the lucky bastards unburdened with his and Emma’s sordid family history) don’t get launched into this lifestyle straight from the cradle. Still, it’s not like light up sneakers will be an asset if Emma needs to make a quick and efficient escape in the dead of night, an unfortunately likely scenario. Jesus, the kid seems appalled just looking at the things. The monsters can already hear and smell me, the disgusted curl of her mouth seems to say, now I’m supposed to help them see me too? There is something decidedly Sam-like in the way she dismisses the things with a scoff. 

She eventually chooses a pair of bright green sneakers, which Dean had spotted and pulled off of the top shelf and Emma had eventually selected for their bounciness. She also elects a pair of brown leather boots, good and sturdy, that come with the added bonus of being excellent for concealing a weapon in polite company (the kind that doesn’t expect little girls to carry daggers in their boots). 

“You’ll need to break them in,” Dean warns, “they’ll hurt the first few days, but after, they’ll fit like a glove.”

They leave the children’s shoe section thirty minutes and twenty pairs of shoes from where they started. Emma proudly and protectively clutches her two boxes to her chest. 

Dean’s selection is a matter of locating the usual brand (which they thankfully haven’t stopped making in the past year) and the usual size and tossing an extra pack of socks into the cart. 

When they swing back around to the front, Dean tells Emma that she should check out the kids’ clothes, see if she finds anything that she likes. She hesitates for a moment, unsure and maybe a little overwhelmed, before beginning to browse the selection with the aura of a general heading into battle. Dean follows a step behind her, pushing the cart, and keeping his mouth quiet. He’s curious to see what she chooses, what she likes. She’s forming opinions and tastes and now style. It’s pretty fucking cool to see and Dean doesn’t want to interfere. Doesn’t want to force her to like the shit he does, he doesn’t want to stifle her like that. Emma pauses at each rack, looping her way around the whole department before circling back around. Emma is prudent. She calculates and considers, weighs her options deliberately, debates. It’s a quality that Dean’s glad she possesses, god knows that no one else in the fucking family does…Jesus, even his mom didn’t…If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d swear that Emma takes after Bobby and he’s grateful as fuck for that. At the same time, Dean can’t help but imagine that Cas would act like this if Dean ever—when, he reminds himself, when they get Cas back—takes him shopping. He would consider everything like Emma does, probably going the extra mile and reading the tags before finally choosing something because it’s really soft or reminds him of the color of a specific outcropping of coral off the coast of Australia. 

Emma tugs on the tail of his shirt, pulling Dean back from where he had been drifting, and pointing to blue shirt with printed orange fish across the front. Dean fishes out the appropriate size, holding up the product for inspection. Emma is scrupulous in her evaluation. Sometimes she nods approvingly and other times she purses her lips and shakes her head. Once they’ve made their way through the entire section, the Emma approved items in the cart include: one Florida Gators t-shirt, two pairs of jean shorts, a grass green sundress, a teal tank top with lavender colored flowers, a purple bathing suit with a yellow starfish on the chest. Dean insists that she also selects a jacket (Emma chooses one in candy apple red) and two hoodies (one with the Captain America logo and the other with Batman), and two pairs of jeans (dark wash, both of them). He adds a pack of plain socks in her size to the cart. 

Dean’s needs are, again, much more quickly and cursorily fulfilled. Emma follows one step behind as he grabs three pairs of jeans, a pack of black t-shirts, a grey Henley, a red and blue flannel and a pack of boxers. Emma seems downright impressed with his speed. He reminds her that he’s done this before.

“Plus,” he adds, “I’m old. We got less cool stuff to choose from.”

Emma glances around at the rows of dull colors and business wear and shrugs her shoulders conceding the point. Hell, if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say she looks almost sad for him. 

The cashier gives them a strange look when they pile all their crap on the conveyor belt, so Dean spins some sob story about the airline losing their luggage, pays with a stolen credit card, and lets Emma, still proudly carrying her shoe boxes, lead the way back to the Impala. 

*

Back in their room at the hotel, Dean shows Emma how to properly fold up her new clothes so that they take up the least amount of space in a duffle bag. 

Emma keeps her Captain America hoodie out and pulls it over her head, holding Bunny and playing with his ears while she sits in the middle of the bed, watching while Dean roots around for the Purgatory lore book that he was reading yesterday. She seems suddenly small and unsure of herself when Dean looks up. Her eyes are downcast and her fingers move slowly and repetitively against Bunny’s soft fur. 

“You wanna call Jody or Benny?” he offers at a loss, “I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”

She looks up at him then, and he can’t quite read her expression, her face is blank, schooled and shuttered.   
Benny’s voice comes drifting to the front of his brain, unbidden: “When you gonna trust yourself, brother?”

Dean swallows. Maybe now is the time.

“Or,” he tries again, rubbing a hand against his neck and coming to sit on the bed across from her, “you could help me out with this part I left off at…I can’t quite figure out what this says…right here.”

Emma’s face untightens somehow, if that’s the right phrase for it, she doesn’t actually move at all, not the slightest shift of position and yet somehow some of the strain hiding at the corners of her mouth and eyes lessens, and she scoots closer, clearly trying to play it cool. That’s how Dean knows he did something, or, if not good, then at least not awful. He can live with that. 

He and Emma work on translating a chapter of a tome written by a…eccentric would be putting it mildly (and kindly) scholar whose work on Purgatory seems to have been based more on Dante’s Inferno than any actual first-hand experience. Of course, the wacko thought his literary scholarship was important enough to imbed it in coded Enochian using French grammar to fill in the gaps that he didn’t know. Emma is, quite honestly, a freaking marvel. There’s no way that Dean would have made sense of that so quickly without her. By the end of the chapter, they’re both tired, stifling yawns. Dean gets Emma bathed and into her pajamas, makes sure that she brushes her teeth.

“Bed or floor?” he asks. 

Emms scuffs a bare foot against the carpeting, shoulders hunched up, embarrassed. 

“Hey,” Dean kneels down to her level, barely stops himself from reaching out to tilt her chin up so that she looks at him, “Emma, it doesn’t matter to me if you sleep on the floor or the bed or a freakin’ hammock as long as you’re comfortable.”

Brown eyes dart up to meet his gaze. Her eye lashes are dark from her bath and it makes her eyes look lighter somehow.

Dean’s mouth twitches sardonically, “That and that I know where you are so I don’t have a heart attack in the middle of the night.

Emma almost smiles and she looks down at her feet again. 

“So,” he tries again, “Where are we gonna set you up?”

“Under the bed,” she says, still looking at her feet. 

Dean nods, “All right.”

He gathers all of the blankets and pillows from Emma’s bed and then goes to get the extras in the small closet off the bathroom. 

“Can I help?”

Emma hesitates, wide eyed as she watches him. She nods.

“Okay, tell me what to do.”

Emma mostly just asks Dean to hand her things as she constructs a nest of blankets and pillows beneath her bed, and he’s happy that he can help, happy to be included. 

When it’s finished, Emma curls up into the center of it, and Dean passes her the final blanket so that can snuggle beneath it. Her eyes glow in the darkness beneath the bed, Bunny tucked under her chin, and her still damp, sweet smelling hair fanned out on her pillow. Dean smiles gently: she looks warm, protected on all sides with soft things, layered and comforted. Beyond that they both know that the room is layered in every protection the two of them could put together. Emma looks safe, settled down to sleep, and it makes Dean feel warm, feel like he’s making up for lost time, feel like he’s doing something right. Finally.

“All right,” Dean starts to get to his feet, “’Night, Em, if you need—”

A tiny hand darts out from beneath the blankets reaching for him and Dean immediately settles back down. 

“Don’t,” Emma says, voice tiny.

Dean frowns, lays down on his side so he can see better, “Don’t what?”

“Stay?” Emma asks plaintively, he eyes over bright with a combination of Amazon glow and tears.

Dean reaches out without hesitation and takes her hand in his. It’s so small, he thinks, so fucking small in his. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Em,” he promises, “I was just gonna brush my teeth and come back to go to bed. I’m not leavin’ you.”

Emma’s face screws up in the darkness, Dean can see the contours of her sorrow lit by the glow of her eyes.  
“You did before,” she whispers, holding back a sob.

Dean’s heart rips apart, just like that.

He did before, but at least that was with Jody and Benny, here, if he were to leave her here she’d be alone. All alone. Dean feels her panic like a tangible thing in the air between them. Her fear leaves a sour taste in his mouth, cement in his lungs.

“Em, I know I did, that was—I fucked up,” he says, reaching his other hand to cup her elbow. It’s breakable, fragile, beneath his calloused palm, “I’m not going anywhere. I know you’re scared, Emma, I don’t blame you. I’d be scared, too.” 

He’s there again somehow, Emma’s age, and his dad shuts the door behind him, leaving Dean with a shotgun too big for his hands, Sammy asleep in the big bed, and a box of Lucky Charms between them, thinking: what if dad never comes back? What if he leaves us? What if the monsters get him? What if it’s just me and Sammy? How will I take care of him? What if…? 

He hates that he’s done that to her. 

“I promise that I’m not gonna leave you. Okay?”

Emma stares at him, and Dean feels the weight of her stare down to his soul. 

“You don’t believe me,” he says after a moment, “but I’m gonna prove it to you. I promise.”

Emma’s lip wobbles, and she wipes her face against Bunny’s ears, clearly trying not to cry, trying to hide that she’s shaking. 

“How about I stay right here with you tonight, huh?” he asks, his stomach tied in knots, what he hopes is reassurance on his face in his voice. 

You did this to her, he screams at himself, you fucking did this to her you asshole, kid wasn’t alive more’n twenty four hours and you did this to her. 

Emma nods quickly and tightly.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand but he releases her elbow to grope blindly for a pillow from his bed. He tucks it under his head and moves closer so that there’s barely six inches of space between them. He keeps his hand against her shoulder, as much of an embrace as he can manage in this position with Emma nestled in a nest under the bed.

“Sing?” she asks tentatively, after a few moments.

“Course,” he clears the tightness from his throat or tries to, his voice wobbles, “Got any requests?”

She concentrates for a few moments, hesitating before she hums a few notes. 

Dean presses his fingers against his eyes, attempting to get it together.

He sings “Let it Be” while he rubs soothing circles against Emma’s shoulder. He sings “Hey Jude” as her blinks become slower and longer.” He sings Dylan until her breathing evens out. 

Dean stays awake for a long while after she drifts off, watching her sleep, watching her live, He imagines his mother, holding her baby grand-daughter, singing the Beatles, lulling her to sleep. Imagines Sam at Emma’s age with an innocence that neither of them had ever had in real life eating PB&J with the crusts cut off. He imagines Cas, imagines a different life, a giant nest of a bed that he and Cas share, Emma curling up between them on nights when she’s frightened by a nightmare, easily soothed because she knows that monsters aren’t real, that she has parents who love her unconditionally, that she’s safe. He imagines the warmth of Cas hand, the security of his family, safe and loved and whole, until his imagination turns into dreams and Dean, too, drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is months overdue, but also much longer than I had originally planned, so hopefully those two things even one another out. That's my long way of saying that I'm very sorry that it's been a while and that I hope this chapter meets your expectations. Thank you deeply, truly, and kindly for your patience, kindness, and encouragement.


	38. North Star (Part II)

The next two days follow a similar pattern. Emma wakes Dean in the morning, rustling in her blankets, tugging on his fingers. Her eyes shine back at him from the darkness beneath the bed. 

After brushing their teeth and getting dressed, packing up the room, breaking down their protective sigils, and making waffles in the lobby’s breakfast buffet, they hit the road. They drive into the afternoon. 

They play (or Dean tries to initiate) car games. The type that he and Sam played as children. Silly things. It takes some coaxing. Emma is still perplexed by the idea of play. Hesitant and wary, puzzled by the idea of fun and his strange behavior. Her brow furrows in confusion; her expression a laughable combination of Sam and Cas. Dean wheedles, cajoles until Emma participates. 

Emma wins eye-spy easily, her vision so much sharper than Dean’s that it’s actually laughable. He can’t compete, not by a long shot. He’s got a sharp eye, sure, could rival most snipers for accuracy by the age of thirteen, can pick up on detail with an ease that most lack. Those are skills, carefully honed. Emma’s vision isn’t that. Or maybe it’s partially that, mostly though, Dean knows that it’s her Amazon heritage peeping through. Much like Dean, she inherited her mother’s eyes, for better or worse. It doesn’t disquiet him as it used to, as it once would have. Instead, he’s suitably amazed and in awe of her. Shakes his head and chuckles ruefully, and she smiles small, but brilliant, clearly pleased with herself.

They play “Going on a picnic” which necessitates explaining the concept of a ‘picnic’ (having never gone on one himself outside of dreamland). Emma doesn’t get it, Dean sucks at it, and he switches to something called “going on demon hunt.” He doesn’t like it, per se, but it’s a way to get Emma talking, it’s a way to keep himself and her sharp. His dad used to quiz them on shit like this when they drove; the similarity makes him squirm in his seat, but John never made it into a game, John never made it fun. He consoles himself with that. 

They point out things they see flying by: cows, trees, signs, old buildings. They listen to music. Dean sings along to the songs he knows, encourages Emma to join him. He catches her humming under her breath from time to time, tapping her fingers against Bunny’s chest. 

They stop for a late lunch in the afternoon, check into a hotel. Dean tries to pick a place that has an elevator and a continental breakfast. He asks for a room off the ground floor. They put up sigils, plant hex bags, lay salt lines, place wards. They triple check everything before they go out. Emma leaves Bunny with a blanket and a hex bag inside a salt circle. It breaks Dean’s heart at the same time it heartens him: she feels safe enough that she can go out with him without Bunny. 

Dean looks for something to do. The first day, Dean takes Emma to a park. It does not go well. Emma frowns at the swings and eyes the monkey bars with disgust. She looks at the other children the same way that Dean might look at a Rugaro: with a strange combination of disgust and pity. Some kids her age invite her to play tag, Emma peers up at Dean, the edge of panic in her eyes, unsure if she should attack. Her fingers twitch, ready to reach for her dagger. Dean tells the kids to go on their way, Emma doesn’t want to play. On the way back to Baby, he tries to comfort her: “they weren’t gonna hurt you” “they wanted to play”. But the idea of playing chase for fun seems as alien to him as it does to her in that moment. After Purgatory…play violence, a “game” of chase…it is beyond Emma’s comprehension. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

He wants to tell her that she has nothing to fear from other kids, that she is by default the toughest kid on the playground, but the words stick in his throat. He remembers the kids that picked on Sammy, the ones that made fun of Dean for his second hand clothes that always smelled of damp, the ones that teased them both cause they didn’t have a mom, cause their dad was a drunk, was gone. He thinks of Lilith sickly sweet and wrapped in a human package not six inches taller than Emma. He swallows his words. 

The second day, he takes Emma to the movies. He figures that it will be easier. No one talks in a movie. She won’t have to socialize. Instead, he faces a different set of issues. Deciding what film constitutes “age appropriate” for someone who has experienced horrors most adults can’t even dream of, grown up in a war zone, riddled with monsters for her entire life is almost impossible. Not realizing that being surrounded by darkness and loud noises would set both of them off is worse. 

When the lights dim and the speakers come on, Dean immediately feels his chest constrict, his heart beat quicken. Emma’s eyes glow gold in the darkness, he can hear her rapid breathing. He grabs her from her seat, scoops her into his arms, and books a hasty retreat. Outside the theater, Dean places Emma on the ground and brace his hands on his knees, bent over, taking deep gulps of air, blinking rapidly in the sunlight. His forehead is lined with cold sweat. Dean apologizes once he’s able to get words out: for dragging her into that, for falling apart when she needed him, for not fucking realizing that the loud noises in the darkness would mess them both up. Emma, pale and shaken, forgives him with a nod, perhaps seeing the way his condition mirrors her own.

Bed time rituals remain the same each day. Dinner is a simple affair at a local restaurant. They go back to the room afterwards. Dean supervises Emma’s bath, helps her into her pajamas, brushes her hair, and braids it the way that Benny showed him. He leaves Emma on the phone with Benny and Jody while he takes a quick shower (he doesn’t want to leave her alone too long). He checks in with Sam while Emma chatters to Benny in rapid French. He turns on the TV for her, but she doesn’t seem especially interested. Dean chats with Jody and Benny while Emma flips through the lore books. Dean joins her in her reading when he’s done. They take notes, puzzle through all the deadends that they hit. They build Emma a nest under the bed, and Dean builds himself a makeshift bed on the floor between the beds, well within Emma’s reach. They double check all of the wards. Emma crawls into her little nest. He makes sure that she and Bunny are settled. She makes sure he’s not going anywhere. Dean sings to her until she falls asleep. Sometimes he tells her stories: things from when he and Sam were growing up, anecdotes about Bobby, faint memories of his mom. Emma listens and watches until her eyes blink closed and her breathing evens out. Dean smiles softly at her. He prays to Cas. He prays as hard as he can. He tells him what they did that day, he tells him that they miss him, that Dean misses him, that they’re coming for him, to just hold on. He closes his eyes tightly and he prays. Then he lies in the darkness and he watches his daughter sleep until the sight of her, calm and safe, lulls him to sleep. 

On the third day, Dean wakes before Emma. Neither of them are sound sleepers; Emma has had at least one nightmare every night that they’ve been together, and Dean’s not doing much better, but this morning, he wakes on the end of a quiet dream; he can’t remember the details, but he knows that he was happy and safe, waking leaves him with a dull ache in his chest. The digital clock reads 6:30, and the soft grey light of dawn peaks between the window curtains. 

Emma’s eyes move beneath their lids, and Dean hopes her dream is a peaceful one. He brushes hair off of her face, a smattering of freckles has started to stand out on the bridge of her nose. She holds Bunny in the crook of her arm and her dagger in her left hand, curled tightly into a ball. 

He watches her sleep and he thinks. If Cas were here, or Benny…they wouldn’t be doing what they wanted for Emma, they’d be doing what Emma needed to feel safe, to feel okay. He pulls his phone for the nightstand; he hatches a plan. 

That afternoon after they’ve had lunch and gotten a hotel room, Dean takes Emma to a park. Not the kind with swing-sets or jungle gyms, the kind with flowers and trees, a big lake in the center with ducks and frogs and fish that swim around just beneath the surface. It’s the type of park that has paths and fountains and benches so you can sit by the water. It’s quiet. There are some afternoon joggers, some mom’s pushing strollers, and elderly couple tottering along the pathways hand in hand, some twenty somethings sun bathing. There’s no alligator hunting here, but Emma wanders around wide-eyed all the same. 

She literally stops and smells the flowers, runs her fingers along leaves. She looks up in wonder at the dappled sunlight streaming between the leafy canopies of trees. Emma dips her fingers into the water of a fountain and looks at her fingers, astonished when they come away clean and cool. Dean and she both take off their shoes to feel the grass between their toes, and Emma honest to god smiles. She sees butterflies and bees for the first time. They feed the ducks, something Dean very vaguely remembers doing with his mom, using bread that Dean stole from their last hotel stay. Emma follows behind a row of ducklings as they follow their mother back to the water. The lake laps at her toes as she watches them paddle away. They sit on the grass by the lake, eating snacks that Dean brought, drinking lemonade juice boxes, watching people walk past, watching the duck family swim to the opposite side of the lake and toddle onto the shore. The freckles on Emma’s nose grow more prominent as the day wears on, Dean’s sure that his do too. They multiple by thousands in the sunlight, but he can’t bring himself to care. Emma looks peaceful for maybe the first time he’s known her, and Dean feels peaceful for the first time in a long damn time. 

The next day, he gets a call from Garth. They’re in the same area, and he’s talked to Jody, and does Dean want to meet up to discuss an idea he has about the “angel ex machina issue” he’s having? Dean says he’ll have to call him back. He sits down with Emma, he explains the situation. He gives her options: Does she want to come? Does she want to stay? He promises that he’ll slit Garth’s throat if he so much as looks at Emma wrong. He promises that he won’t run out on her no matter what. He promises that he wouldn’t do this if it weren’t a lead on Cas. He promises everything he can. 

Emma listens, solemn faced. She purses her mouth while she considers her choices. She may be four, but she’s learned tactics from a life on the run, the smallest lifeform in a warzone. She’s learned strategy from Dean and Benny and Cas. She’s learned (Dean hopes) common sense from Jody. In the end, her fear of Dean leaving must outweigh her fear of a measly hunter because she decides to join him. Dean triple checks her decision: makes sure that she’s really, truly okay with this. She rolls her eyes repeatedly and nods, resolved. 

Dean calls Garth. He sets up a meeting. Family friendly restaurant outside of Richmond, lunch time, daylight. He tells Garth he’s bringing someone. He tells Garth to leave Mr. Fizzles at home. 

Dean and Emma are both battle ready when they walk into Big Gurson’s the next day. Emma’s stony faced countenance is terrifying enough that the hostess gives them a concerned look when she leads them to a table. The place is bustling, warmly light, windows high and open; the layout is the same as every other Big Gurson’s in the continental United States. Dean’s stomach is twisting with a particularly unpleasant combination of hope and anxiety. What if Garth has an answer? What if their meeting goes horribly wrong? What if Emma shanks Garth in the middle of a family friendly restaurant? Should he have set up this meeting at a bar? Jesus, cause having a kid in a bar wouldn’t throw up twenty red flags? Way to fucking go, Dean. Sam is heading their way, maybe he should have had Sam meet with Garth? But that would have set them back by at least two to three days, and if they play this right, Dean could be in Maine with Emma, and, fuck, maybe even Cas by tomorrow…He jogs his leg up and down beneath the table twists his paper straw wrapper into pieces, watches Emma watch the door, not even bothering to touch the crayons they’ve been given. Her face is tight and pinched. When Garth shows up, Emma looks surprised to see a gangly, smiling man, and not a grim faced, grime covered, monster. Dean gets drawn into a hug, and Garth extends a hand to Emma, every inch a southern gentleman. She nods rather than take it, and Garth just smiles more brightly, withdrawals his hand, and sits down across from Dean (Emma moves over to sit next to her sire). 

“So Dean, Miss Emma,” he says, nodding at her in acknowledgement, “I think that I may have a solution to your angel problem.”

Emma blinks, sits straighter in her seat. Dean leans forward, elbows braced on the tabletop. 

“Well?” Dean prompts. 

Garth pulls a folded piece of paper from inside his jacket. He flattens it on the table top.

“You try summoning him?”

Dean blinks. Emma blinks. Garth grins. 

“I figured,” he says in sympathy, “it’s a tricky thing summoning anything: one wrong syllable and you end up with demon instead of a fairy. And that’s if you’re trying to summon the thing from where it comes from…” 

He shakes his head, “Now Jody, she told me you’re trying to pull an angel out of Purgatory?”

Emma nods frantically. Dean clears his throat, “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Well, Bobby didn’t have much about angels in his house, but he did have this,” he taps the paper, covered from top to bottom in tightly written, black script. The language looks like a mix of Enochian and Hebrew, “it’s a summoning ritual that might work.” Dean pulls it closer, scrutinizes it. It’s a list of ingredients, some doodles along the edges, fanciful shit, the summoning itself.

Emma stands on her chair to peer at the writing over Dean’s shoulder.

“It’s a True Name summons,” Dean mutters, half to Garth, half to himself.

Garth nods, “It should be enough to pull someone, or something, out of Purgatory.”

Dean sits back, frowning, “That’s not what it’s designed for.”

Emma darts her gaze at him and then over to Garth.

Garth shrugs, “Up until I talked to Jody last week, I didn’t know there was a Purgatory—”

Dean scoffs, “There’s one down in Miami; you should check it out, way more fun.”

That startles a laugh out of Garth and a puzzled frown from Emma.

When Garth gets his breath back, he wipes at his eyes, “This is supposed to pull an angel from another plane to this one.”

“Purgatory is definitely another plane,” Dean taps his fingers against the table top, “but it’s its own damn playground. It plays by a different set of rules. Hell, it took over a year to figure out how to open the damn thing…Cas and I only ended up there cause we got caught on the wrong side of exploding—Leviathan.”

Garth raises his hands, leans back, “I hear ya, Dean, but this might be your best shot.”

Dean takes a deep breath. Garth is right. This is a hell of a lot more to go on than they’ve had so far. 

“Thanks for your help,” Dean says sincerely.

Garth smiles, it heightens his resemblance to a puppy, “Happy I could help out. Honestly. We all thought you were dead. It’s good to see you back, and, with this little one in tow.”

Emma, who had been furtively reading the summoning spell, glances up at that. She tilts her head to the side, just like Cas. Dean swallows down a lump in his throat and the urge to smile at once.

“Did you and Cas…?” Garth waves his hand vaguely.

Dean rolls his eyes, “Jesus, no…” not for lack of wanting, “Emma is my kid.”

He looks at her, looking at him. He swallows again and faces Garth. 

“She’s Cas’ too, but we didn’t make her together.”

Garth nods sagely, “Well, Emma, I’ve never met Cas, but your dad here,” he reaches across the table to grab Dean’s shoulder, “is a big ole teddy bear. We’ve worked some cases together and let me tell you, he’s the best they come.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, Garth,” Dean brushes him off while Emma stares at them both as if they’ve grown extra heads right before her very eyes. 

The conversation turns (or Dean turns it) to the case that Garth is working, how the hunter community has moved on since Bobby’s death (the thought of which still gives Dean a jolt of pain in his sternum), where the best place to get the ingredients they’ll need for the summoning is. Garth regales Emma with stories from recent hunts, the story of his first hunt: apparently Garth was a dentist, apparently Garth killed the fucking tooth fairy. Dean is torn between incredulity and hysterics. Emma succumbs to the latter. It’s the first time that Dean’s heard her laugh in…well, maybe ever. And maybe it’s because there’s hope in the air at last, maybe it’s because they have a plan of action, maybe it’s because Dean thought this lunch was going to be a literal bloodbath and it turned out to be the exact opposite, maybe it’s because Garth is just that funny, but Dean joins in on the laughter. 

They say goodbye to Garth. He envelops Dean in a hug, and Dean hugs him back, grateful beyond words. Garth doesn’t force an embrace on Emma. He offers her his hand again (she takes it this time), and gives them both a wave as he lopes off to his truck. 

Dean shoots Sam a text, a photo message of the summoning spell and coordinates for where they’re headed. He shoots a thank you and an update to Jody and (by extension) Benny. He and Emma climb into the Impala. There is an itch under Deans’ skin, one he sees mirrored in Emma’s eyes when he turns the key in the ignition. They’re headed north, mutual agreement that they won’t be stopping to rest until they hit their final destination: a forest clearing in Maine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly overdue, but here it is. Love to all of you who have stuck with this story. <3


	39. Have a Little Faith

Thirty hours later, they stand on either side of a silver basin filled with the ingredients needed for their spell, ingredients gathered from five different supermarkets and apothecaries along the East Coast, painstakingly chosen for the proprietors least likely to chop him and Emma up for parts to sell. They’re both tired, they’re both keyed up; from driving all day, from hiking through ten miles of Maine wilderness, from the mission at hand. Dean looks at his daughter, her face bright with anticipation, worry. He knows that he’s wearing the same expression. 

“You ready?” he asks

Emma’s eyes glow with nerves as dusk settles around them. She swallows visibly and nods. 

Dean nods back and squares his shoulders, “All right. Here goes nothing.”

He says the words slowly and precisely, more carefully than he has ever been with the pronunciation of any banishing or summoning before. He starts the spell, and the air grows still around them. As he continues, a breeze rises; Emma hisses at it; the hair along the back of Dean’s neck rises. He goes on, each syllable hard and clipped, Latin and Enochian woven together. The basin begins to glow. Dean can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Wind whips around them both in a tight circle, raising debris from the forest floor, pulling loose leaves from the surrounding trees, twigs tangle in Emma’s hair and dirt smacks against Dean’s cheeks. As he reaches the end of the summoning, the wind reaches a crescendo, a small cyclone separating them from the world, like the wind that swept them from Purgatory. The last word of the spell is Castiel’s name, Dean half yells, half growls against the wind, desperate. He meets Emma’s eyes across the basin which glows a striking, radiant silver. Emma’s golden eyes reflect the light, a metallic otherworldly stare. He lights a match, drops it into the bowl.

A flash of light—white, blinding, burning hot—erupts from the basin, reaching from the ground to the sky. A crack of thunder splits the air as it connects—a lightning strike in reverse—sparks shower down on them. The wind drops and the force of the explosion has them both staggering backwards, Dean blinking rapidly, temporarily blinded as he tries to see around spots and afterimages. He focuses on his ears, listens desperately for a familiar step, the swish of a trench coat, the graveled intonation of a voice that he hasn’t heard in far too long. 

There is nothing. 

He rubs at his eyes viciously, trying to force things into focus. He spins in a circle. Eyes darting high and low, as if the spell would have dropped Cas into the branches of a tree, as if Cas is hiding behind a rock, lurking in a shadow, as if Cas wouldn’t zero in on the two of them and come running or flying to them as soon as he realized where he was. Cas is nowhere. There is no tan coat swishing out from behind a tree trunk, no tread of sensible shoes, no flash of blue eyes, bright in the gathering darkness. There is nothing, no one. 

Dean freezes, tenses. He can’t move, paralyzed by his last fragment of hope. The childish belief that if he can just hold still, just stop, just stand there a second longer, Cas will appear, logic be damned. Dean knows that the world keeps spinning around him. As the dust settles, he knows, is vaguely aware, that crickets are chirping and birds are singing and animals are crawling through the underbrush, but he doesn’t register them. For a moment, it’s quiet, so quiet that he can’t hear anything, can’t even hear his own breathing. There’s only silence: profound, crushing as the sun inches further beneath the horizon, bathing the forest in crimson, the color of freshly spilled blood. 

It sinks in slowly: Cas isn’t coming. Dean stands there in the woods of Maine, staring at the silver bowl, still smoking with the remnants of the spell, and realizes, with the soul crushing certainty of death, that Cas isn’t coming. 

A tremor starts in his fists, crawls its way up his arms and into his chest, his vision gets fuzzy at the edges. He kicks the silver basin, the charred remains of their last hope, as hard as he can. It ricochets off of a nearby tree. 

“God damn it,” he snarls, “God fucking damn it!” 

He punches the closest tree trunk, his knuckles come away throbbing and raw; he turns his face up to the treetops, the obscured sky, “God fucking damn it. Fuck.”

Dean spins in a circle, angry, desperate, “Fuck.” 

He wants to scream, to cry, to fucking rip a portal to Purgatory open with his bare-fucking-hands, to turn back the goddamn clock and drag Cas through with them when they’d made their escape, to force Cas into being, draw him into this plane with how much he wants, needs Cas to be here with him. He wants—Dean falls to his knees, grips his head in desperation, tucks his chin to his chest to block out the world however briefly, to stave off the harsh bite of reality because if Cas didn’t respond to this summons, to this type of summons, it almost certainly means that he’s…that Cas is…Dean swallows hard.

Emma lays a small hand upon his shoulder, and he steals himself to look into her face. Her eyes are dark and her expression is fragile; this is not a hardened warrior; this is a child. 

Her lips wobble when she asks, “Cas?”

One word, and it breaks Dean’s heart. He tries to muster a smile for her, but he fails miserably. He places a hand over hers.

“I don’t—he’s not coming, kiddo.”

Emma searches his face. Dean half expects her to deny it, half expects her to yell or cry or scream, to make a swipe at him. She does none of those things. She nods once, and then her careful stoicism, her composure, disappears. Her chin wobbles, her forehead screws up, her mouth twists, and her eyes fill with tears. She pitches forward, and Dean is, thankfully, right there to catch her. He pulls her in close, and she clutches his neck and his jacket. Emma trembles, silently sobbing against his chest. Dean rests his head against hers, wraps her more securely in his arms. A single tear makes its way down his cheek, then another, and another. They land against Emma’s hair

“I know, Emma,” he whispers to her, getting to his feet, “I know.”

Dean carries his daughter out of the forest. They leave the silver basin behind them and don’t look back.

*

“No, Sam,” Dean says into the phone as he speeds down the highway, “nothing happened. I mean literally nothing. The spell did whatever mojo it was supposed to but…no Cas.”

Emma is curled up in the passenger seat, wrapped around Bunny and her knife with her eyes screwed tightly shut. Dean glances at her every five seconds, lays a reassuring hand on her ankle when he has one to spare. 

“Dean,” Sam is hesitant, “if he didn’t show…you know what that means…”

Dean snaps, “Yes, Sam, I fucking know.”

“We’ll keep looking,” Sam promises, “we’ll find a way.”

Dean bites his lip, “Yeah, okay.”

“Dean—” 

“When can you get here?”

“I can get there tomorrow if I hurry.”

“Okay,” Dean nods and then he glances at Emma, switches the phone to his other ear, “Make a pit stop and grab some food, okay? I don’t think the kid’s up for a shopping trip.” 

Neither am I, he thinks. Sam gets the message loud and clear. At least that part of their relationship is still intact. 

“Of course, man, is there…ah, anything she likes?”

Dean rolls his eyes, “You don’t need to stop at the bloodbank if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t—!”

“I know, man, I’m sorry—it’s been a shitty day,” he readjusts his grip on the wheel, “she likes pancakes, and cheeseburgers and lemonade, get whatever else you think.”

“Okay,” Sam mumbles something, “just, we’re gonna find a way to get Cas back, Dean. Stay focused on that, okay?”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean glances at his daughter, strung out on grief, “I will. Just get your ass up here in one piece.”

*

It takes them almost three hours to make it to Jody’s friends’ “cabin” in Vermont. It’s bigger than he expected, but at this point it could be a fucking shack and he wouldn’t care. He brings Emma inside, sets her on the couch, and then goes back for their bags. He appraises the place quickly: well furnished, cozy. He could do without the big windows—they leave him feeling exposed in the middle of the woods in the middle of fucking nowhere—but the furniture seems comfortable and the locks look strong.

After the day that they’ve had, Dean wants nothing more than to take a shower and fall into bed, make sure his kid is safe and warm and happy, but there are things they have to do first. They go through the entire house, top to bottom, checking for things that go bump in the night and laying down all the precautions that they need to keep the mother fuckers out. It takes much longer to go over every room in this house than it does to do a hotel room and check it twice, but the work is oddly soothing. It’s mindless, something he’s done thousands of times. Emma, for once, doesn’t participate, she follows him from room to room and watches silently, holding Bunny and looking lost. 

“You hungry?” he asks when they’ve finished.

Emma shakes her head.

Dean doesn’t push her, “Me neither. Let’s get you cleaned up for bed, huh?”

Emma is pliant while Dean bathes her, dries her, and helps her dress. She insists on sitting in the bathroom while Dean does the same for himself. She curls up with Bunny next to the radiator as he finishes his shower and waits while he throws on his pajamas behind the curtain. When he emerges still damp, she looks incredibly relieved, as if she’d been worried that he would disappear behind the curtain, a magician’s trick gone wrong. She’s afraid to let him out of her sights. That’s been the case before, but never quite this bad. It’s almost as if, having already lost two parents, she’s loathe to lose a third. Dean, intimately acquainted with losing parents, gets it, and the only thing worse than getting it, is watching his own child experience that same pain. 

He sets them up in the master bedroom, the one that has a king sized bed and flat screen TV. He pulls the mattress off the bedframe, which he turns on its side and pushes up against the window. He drags the mattress to the corner closest to the door, and sits Emma down on it. He roots through the closet and gathers all the extra blankets and pillows he can find, and tries to cobble them together into a nest, the way that Emma likes. She seems indifferent to his actions, but he doesn’t take it personally because she crawls into the center of the nest all the same.

Dean hesitates, “D’you want to watch TV?”

She shakes her head.

“D’you want the lights off?”

She nods. Dean flips the switch.

“D’you want me to go?”

She shakes her head quickly, and a tear falls down the side of her nose. She buries her face in the top of Bunny’s head and lets out a sob.

“Emma,” Dean climbs up onto the bed with her and pulls her into a hug. She’s four years old, she shouldn’t have to deal with this. He would do anything to protect her from this. He rocks her back and forth against his chest while she cries.

“I know,” he mumbles, “I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Tears fall down Dean’s face onto the top of Emma’s head. Dean had such foolish hopes for this day. He had imagined Cas here with them, ruffled, and worn down. In need of feeding and a shower and sleep, but mercifully alive. He had imagined how it would go: Emma running into his arms, Cas’ bright smile. Dean pulling them both to him, feeling Cas’ warmth, hearing his voice, knowing, for once, that his family was safe. He had wished so desperately, so, so fiercely. He had let himself want something, and it was the stupidest fucking thing he could have done. Wanting Cas, loving Cas, had doomed the poor bastard a thousand times over and now…it wasn’t just Dean’s heart on the line, it wasn’t just Cas life. He tries to remember what Sam said: that they would find a way, that they always find a way, but…Dean may not be as savvy with the lore as Sam is, but he knows what a true name summoning means to an angel, it’s impossible to resist the pull, modified like it was, Cas should have been drawn to them, nothing should have been able to stop him, nothing except…unless he was…Dean can’t even think the word, can’t even contemplate it. His eyes burn and he tries to hold in the sounds of his own grief, while Emma keens against his chest. 

Emma eventually cries herself to sleep. Dean keeps rocking her and murmuring to her until exhaustion drags him under too. 

*

They wake up the next morning, eyes swollen, sore, and red rimmed in the same way. Dean forces himself and Emma to scarf down some Ego waffles that he finds in the freezer. He doesn’t feel much like eating and neither, by the looks of it, does she, but he tells her that it’s important to keep their strength up, and they both manage to keep down a few bites, which Dean considers a success. The house, in the light of day, features modern appliances, and is well kept: a retreat for a moderately wealthy couple with no kids. He tries to convince Emma to watch some TV, but she wants no parts of it, and instead follows him as he strategically scatters some weapons around the house and meticulously takes stock of what’s to be found in medicine cabinets and dresser drawers. He teaches his daughter to look under the bed, not for monsters, which they all know can hide in far better places, but for safety deposit boxes and emergency stashes of cash. Once there’s a knife and gun in every room, and Dean has a good mental tally of what types of first aid supplies they have and need, he starts going through all the books they brought, trying to sort out the potentially useful from the batshit crazy. Emma helps him. Since he can’t very well distract his daughter with Sesame Street or a coloring book, he asks her earnestly if she and Bunny would help translate an Enochian text into English for him. She settles on the floor to work, and Dean pours over a tome that is more quantum physics than esoteric magic, but might have a small chance of being useful. 

Sam arrives in the afternoon with what looks like the entire contents of a Whole Foods, a sheepish grin, and wide sorrowful eyes. 

Sam hugs Dean in his octopus arms, and, for a moment, Dean feels lighter, supported, safe. He’s not alone anymore; he’s not bearing this burden by himself. He grips his brother tighter, and Sam holds on a second longer than he normally would, letting Dean soak up his support until Dean thumps on his back and pulls away. 

He raises his brow at the ten plus reusable grocery bags, and the truck in the drive loaded down with a few more, “I know we’re kind of off the grid, Sam, but we’re not that off the grid.”

Sam shrugs and grins self-consciously, “I didn’t know what she would like.”

Dean wants to say, neither does she; we’re still figuring it out, but Sam’s eyes widen at something over Dean’s shoulder.

“Hi, Emma,” Sam says adopting his least threatening expression, hunching over to make himself seem smaller.

Emma stares at him from the foyer, face still, eyes unblinking. 

Sam glances at Dean and then back to Emma, he crouches down to her level albeit a few feet away, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Emma darts a glance at Dean, then Sam, then Dean again.

“It’s okay, Emma,” he soothes, “remember, we talked about how Sam was gonna come help us with Cas?”

Emma nods reluctantly. They had talked about it on the drive North: whether or not Sam would, or could, stay with them, whether or not Emma would be okay in his proximity, whether or not Dean was a total douchebag and an awful fucking father for even floating the idea that Emma share space with her killer. It probably could have been better handled, more thorough; hell, it would have been better if Dean didn’t have to ask this of her at all, but their base of operations is forty minutes from the nearest town, and Sam is damn useful to have on their side. Dean had had to read Emma’s body language and expression, offer her as many yes or no questions as possible to get answers from her. In the end it amounted to: Sam could stay with them, provided that he not be left alone with Emma, that Emma would be allowed to hide from him, that Dean would keep Sam away from her if necessary, and that there would be no violence, physical or verbal. Dean had texted Sam the terms from a rest stop yesterday. God, was it only yesterday?

“Well,” Dean says, looking between, arguably, the two most important people in his life, “come inside.”

*

They set about stocking the fridge and the pantry. Sam really did bring a little bit of everything and a lot of a few things. Emma perches on the counter observing the vegetables and cereals that pass before her with interest, while Sam babbles about the drive North, the health benefits of kale, and whether or not they should make stir fry for dinner. When the bags are empty and the cabinets full, Dean ushers Sam into the dining room and Emma follows like a shadow. The large hand carved table is covered in books, sheets of paper in various states of repair, notes and post its, and diagrams. Dean stands at the head of the table. Sam sits to his left, Emma to his right where she stares at him without blinking. Dean passes Sam an open book, and Sam runs his fingers through his hair as he listens to Dean explain the ritual they used last night. He occasionally darts fleeting glances up at Emma and scribbles notes on a legal tablet, but he otherwise remains focused on Dean. 

When Dean finishes, Sam leans back in his chair with a frown. He asks Dean to sketch out a sigil, then writes out Cas’ name in Enochian, then Hebrew, then Enochian. He frowns some more. Sam asks questions of Dean, Dean responds with sharp answers and more questions; they turn to the books and the scrolls and the post-its (some of them Dean’s, some of them Bobby’s, some of them Garth’s, though the ones that Sam adds swiftly become the majority). They debate whether a bronze bowl would make a difference over a silver one, whether it would need to be made of the same material as an angel blade, and, if so, how they hell would they 1. find enough angle blades to make a bowl and 2. make a bowl out of the most indestructible material that they’ve thus far encountered. 

Emma spends the first hour or so just watching them and listening, occasionally frowning. She gives up staring Sam into submission around the hour and fifteen-minute mark, and, after two hours, apparently gets fed up with their ineptitude enough to correct Sam when he writes out a note about blood summons. She doesn’t speak to him. Instead, she waves sharply to get his attention, points at his note, and firmly shakes her head. Dean and Sam stare at her stunned, until she gestures that they pass her a piece of paper and a pen at which point she crosses out what Sam had gotten wrong and underlines what he got right before passing it back. Sam accepts the correction with a solemn thank you, and Emma gives him one tiny, begrudging nod in acknowledgement. Dean has to snap his jaw shut before they move on. 

They fall into a relatively stable pattern after that. Dean cooks with Emma as a sous chef three times a day, Sam provides a steady stream of coffee. They spend most of the morning researching and most of the afternoon experimenting; they eat dinner before doing more research, and they repeat the cycle the next day. Dean takes Emma out for weapons practice (to let out both of their frustrations) twice a day and tries to believe that its different from what his father did with him (please, fucking whoever is listening, let it be different). Sam goes on supply runs when necessary. After the first one, he brings back an iPhone for Emma (“it’s so you can call Jody and Benny, or, uh, your dad, or help if you need it,” he turns red and shuffles on his feet when he hands it over. When Dean accuses him of bribery, mad that he didn’t think of this first and jealous that Sam did, Sam looks crestfallen and admits that he has a lot to make up for with Emma, he’s gonna do what he can, and he stares at her so wistfully that Dean can’t bring himself to berate or jibe him further). Emma facetimes with Jody and Benny (separately even though they’re both in the same place) every night before she crawls into the nest that Dean made for them in the master bedroom. Sam sleeps down the hall. His brother is burning the midnight oil; he doesn’t come upstairs until just before dawn. Dean and Emma, restless and waking from nightmares hear him creeping down the hall as the birds start to rouse beyond the windows. Dean can guess at why Sam is avoiding sleep, is tempted to join him downstairs when he lies awake and anxious, but Emma won’t go to sleep unless Dean is in there with her, and he doesn’t want to encourage her to sleep any less than she already does.

It becomes apparent relatively quickly (i.e. by the end of the first week) that the issue isn’t a lack of knowledge about angels or angelic summons, but rather the mechanics or “universal laws” that govern Purgatory and its ensuing relationships with other planes of existence. On the eve of the apocalypse, Cas and Bobby had collaborated on what Sam calls the Angelology and Dean (at the time) had called The Great Big Book of Dicks: diligently cataloguing as much information as they could about angelic laws, behaviors, powers, weaknesses, rules, etc. It’s a series of at least ten notebooks that they know of, which, thanks to Jody, they have in their possession. Bobby and Cas’ scripts interject on every page, meticulous notes that Dean remembers them writing, hunched over Bobby’s desk, Cas rumpled and tired, Bobby hard and determined, Michael and Lucifer breathing down their necks. Dean runs his fingertips over the inked pages, frowning, as he reads about silver basins and true name rituals. 

“None of these rituals accounts for Purgatory,” Sam explains to Emma, “they’re meant to call an angel from a celestial plane, an earthly one, or a demonic one, or vice versa, see?” he points to a postscript squeezed into the bottom margin of the page in front of Dean, “Cas said that you had to adjust the summoning depending upon your location relative to the being you’re summoning. On the next page Bobby wrote down how to summon an angel from seven different spheres of heaven…there are notes for each level of hell, fuck, they made notes for what you would need to do if you were summoning on a rose line during an eclipse on earth…but there is nothing, nothing in there that details what you would have to do to summon an angel from Purgatory.” 

Emma tilts her head, intrigued by Sam’s argument, following it avidly. Dean frowns at his brother.

He continues, “That’s probably because, when they wrote these, we didn’t know that Purgatory was even real, let alone that angels could get there…” he pauses, and Dean winces at the memory of Cas absorbing Purgatory souls. The betrayal still makes him feel sick, though not as sick as Cas drowning in a reservoir.

“Get to the point, Sam,” Dean snaps. Emma looks at him curiously, gives him a reproachful frown.

Sam clears his throat and shakes his head to clear out the shadows of the past; that time wasn’t exactly a picnic for him either.

“The point is that the ritual you guys did might have failed, not because Cas isn’t there to summon, but because the summoning, as you performed it, didn’t account for the laws that govern the division of earth and purgatory and account for a celestial being between them.”

“Which means that…?” Dean can’t say the words.

Sam gives him a knowing look; hazel eyes bright, “It’s possible that Cas is still alive…he just can’t get here…”

Dean and Emma share a glance—both remembering the Leviathan closing in on Cas as they were sucked through the portal. Emma’s mouth twists into a grim line, but her eyes are determined. Hope, he reminds himself, is the only thing they got.

“So,” Dean says, “we figure it out.”

They spend a week parsing everything they can about Purgatory from the materials at their disposal. They try more than fifteen different summoning rituals tweaked to account for Purgatory: none of them work. Dean calls in Garth to consult: he has little to offer himself, but promises to keep his eyes and ears open for any information relevant to their cause. Benny, freshly un-sired, on his way to North Dakota, and looking happier than Dean’s ever seen him, spends an entire afternoon divulging every secret and scrap of information that he knows about the place where he spent what felt like an eternity. Sam actually records the conversation so that he can replay pieces of it as necessary. Jody promises to look through the things of Bobby’s that she has, is sorry that she can’t do more. Dean asks Kevin what God had to say about Purgatory—the answer is nothing that Benny hasn’t told them in grislier detail. Dean receives a follow up call five minutes after he finishes speaking with Kevin from Linda Tran asking after Emma’s wellbeing and suggesting that Sam consider a trip south to an art dealer who specializes in early medieval manuscripts. There are no ready solutions, but they keep working, and after so many years flying solo, it’s heartening, if a bit bewildering, to know that they have a whole team on their side. 

*

“So, you gonna tell me what happened in Texas?” Dean asks. 

Emma is at the dining room table, pouring over one of the manuscripts that Sam brought back from DC. He and Sam are cleaning up after dinner; it seems as good a time as any to ask, but Sam freezes, his shoulders rigid and strained. Dean’s surprised he doesn’t break the plate he’s washing.

“I saw Amelia,” Sam says after a beat, returning to his work, forcibly relaxing his frame, “she didn’t…it didn’t work out.”

Dean leans against the counter, “That’s all I’m gonna get?” he takes the dish from Sam and starts drying.

Sam sighs long and weary, “What do you want me to say, Dean?”

“I want you to say what you need to, so that you can let it go.”

It’s honest. True. If anyone can relate to whatever Sam is going through, it’s Dean. He knows that Sam’s four am bedtime isn’t fueled entirely by his desire to save Cas; knows what it is to push yourself to the point of exhaustion just so that you can get a moment’s rest without feeling the hollow space in your chest. 

Sam doesn’t respond, but Dean is a patient man. Sam finishes washing each dish, thoroughly scrubbing every pot and pan, scouring the sink clean when there’s nothing else to do, by the time he finally speaks, his fingers have gone wrinkly. He doesn’t look at Dean when he speaks. He stares out at the gathering twilight through the kitchen window. 

“She didn’t believe me at first,” Sam admits, “thought I was using it—the truth—as a way to push her away, can’t say that I blame her…what we do…what the world is…it’s crazy…”

He runs a hand through his hair, while Dean remembers the look on Cassie’s face when she’d thrown him out of her apartment, and the look on her face all those years later when she told him she had thought he was pushing her away when what he had been doing was breaking his father’s cardinal rule because he trusted her, loved her. He looks at the hurt on Sam now and sees a mirror of his own pain, sees it amplified on his brother’s face.

“I showed her some stuff, things, that it would be hard to…well, deny the truth.”

“Please, tell me you didn’t summon a demon,” Dean says half joking.

Thankfully, Sam chuckles.

“Nothing that extreme,” he fiddles with the ends of a dish towel, “I tweaked a banishing sigil, sent myself right out of the motel room…I think I kinda freaked her out.”

“Dude,” Dean doesn’t even know where to start, “How the hell did you do that?”

Sam shrugs, “Emma gave me the idea.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, “Emma?”

Sam’s mouth twists into a wry smile, “When I met you guys in Louisiana, Jody, she said that Emma had a sigil to banish me if things got too…heated. She wanted me to know in case it actually happened.”

Dean blinks nonplused. He had no idea, but he’s not sure that he’s entirely surprised.

“Like an escapes hatch basically,” Sam shoots a glance at the dining room where Emma continues her work and then smiles at Dean, “I’m kind of honored we’ve gone this long without her using it.”

“Sam…”

Sam waves him off, “I deserve a lot worse than getting a time out…I’m glad she has that. Glad she feels…not safe, maybe, but like she has an emergency button, ya know? It’s more than we had as kids.”

Dean lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“She’s smart, Dean,” Sam says, “all these years and I never even thought to banish a human. Talk about an evacuation procedure. We could save a lot of lives with that. You should be proud of her.”

“I am,” Dean responds gruffly, “Didn’t have much to do with how she turned out, but I’m damn proud of her.”

Sam nods, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

They stand silently for a moment. It’s fully dark outside now, crickets begin their nightly song.

“So, after you Apparated out of the room, what happened?”

Sam braces his hands on the edge of the sink, “She wanted to know as much as she could. I think she was in shock—”

“—you think—?”

“—so I told her. Everything. She said that she needed time to think. I told her she could take as much as she wanted…” Sam shrugs, eyes downcast, “I don’t blame her for not wanting to be part of this. I can’t.”

Dean squeezes his brother’s shoulder, tries to offer solidarity, support through touch, wishes he could take away the pain, “Doesn’t mean you can’t wish things were different.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. They stand in silent commiseration for a few moments. 

“I gave her as much information as I could, some hexbags, painted a devil’s trap in front of every door, and then I said goodbye.”

Dean feels for his brother. Remembers leaving Lisa and Ben, Cassie leaving him, pulling Sam away from a burning apartment building, a single gunshot and the sound of Sam’s cries when Madison died. 

“For what it’s worth, Sam, you did the right thing,” Dean says, “and I’m sorry.”

Sam looks at him, long and appraising, before a slight smile ticks at the corners of his mouth, it’s weak and watery, but there. 

“Thanks, Dean.”

*

Emma doesn’t trust Sam, but after a month of cohabitation (broken only by Sam’s weekend sojourn to the art auction that Linda Tran recommended) she’s more comfortable with him. She doesn’t stare daggers at him throughout the day, nor does she use Dean as a human shield. She hasn’t banished Sam to another room, another building, or hell, though Dean’s now aware that she’s capable of the first two, so he considers that some damn fine progress. 

Dean thinks that her restraint has as much to do with the strange sort of exposure therapy they’re doing here (Sam brought a shit ton of child psychology books when he came to them and Dean’s been reading them on the sly) as their expanding relationship as brainy collaborators on Operation: Save Cas. Emma is adept as hell at spell work, translation, applied physics, and a firsthand understanding of Purgatory, and Sam is continually impressed, if not outright in awe of her. As time passes, he becomes more comfortable around her, more willing to ask her questions and get her input (rather than ask Dean or the room at large what he thinks about x, y, and z) because he’s scared of upsetting her or unsure how to act around her. Emma is not truly comfortable with Sam; she likely never will be, but the peaceful coexistence is more than Dean had dared hope for and he’ll take it. 

Sam attempted to apologize, but Emma wasn’t ready to hear it; to acknowledge it. When he tried, Emma had flipped the switch from calm and focused to terrified and angry in less than two seconds. Dean had had to take her up to the nest and sing to her for hours while Sam apologized profusely wringing his hands and looking wounded from the bottom of the stairs. 

“When she’s ready, Sam, she’ll let you know.”

“What if she’s never ready? Dean I can’t ever apologize enough for what I—”

“It’s not about you getting absolution, Sam,” Dean had rejoined, harsher than he intended, “it’s about her getting closure and she’s not ready yet.”

Sam’s jaw snapped shut and he considered Dean carefully.

“What?”

“Have you been reading the books I brought?”

Dean rolled his eyes, “I have, but that ain’t from a psychologist, that’s 100% from the Dean Winchester Trying Not to Fuck Up his Kid Playbook.”

“You’re not fucking her up, Dean.”

Dean snorted.

“You’re not.”

“Uhuh, pull the other one.”

“You’re doing better than dad ever did.”

“That’s a low bar and you know it.”

“You love her.”

Dean swallowed, “Yeah, yeah I do,” he thought of the scars on her back, the fear in her eyes, even still sometimes when she looked at him, like he’s the monster parents warn their children about, “Don’t really know if it’s enough.”

Sam hesitated, unsure, “What happened to Emma, wasn’t your fault, Dean, it was mine.”

“Listen, Sam, we can play the blame game all we want, but it doesn’t change what happened. Doesn’t change that she’s got scars that will never go away.”

“No,” Sam hunched his shoulders, looked down; his hair fell in his eyes, “No, they won’t…”

Dean sighed, gripped Sam’s shoulder, “Let’s focus on getting Cas back, take it as it comes. Okay?”

Sam gazed almost wistfully at the stairs, the room where Emma was hiding from him, “Okay.”

*

On the night of the full moon, two months after Dean and Emma summoned Cas in Maine, Dean, Emma, and Sam gather together in the woods beyond the cabin. As the sun sets, Emma painstakingly draws sigils in salt on the earth, while Dean paints them on the trees in a paste made of coal, blood, and saffron; Sam, in the middle of their concentric circles, builds a small fire, periodically sprinkling herbs and intoning words that make it flair bright colors in the gathering darkness. 

The basin is deeper this time, a radiant gold that matches Emma’s eyes. When the moon reaches its apex, they each add a drop of blood to the ingredients already gathered for the spell. Emma’s eyes reflect the fire, and Dean can’t tell if they’re giving or reflecting the light as they glow; her hair catches the light; she looks like his mother, determined, fierce. Sam stands tall. The shadows make him look one moment a young man in sorrow, the next an old man at peace. Dean wonders what he looks like to them, here in the wilderness, in the darkness: a human or a demon. Sam passes the basin to Dean, who holds it carefully between his palms; they’ve tried a hundred different versions of this spell, thought of a thousand more. This is it; the last. Dean swallows hard when he accepts the basin from Sam, intoning an Enochian word of gratitude, Sam whispers the blessing they rehearsed and offers a tense smile. Emma’s eyes are huge as she takes her place across the fire. Dean steps towards the flames. Emma cuts her palm; Dean winces, but Emma doesn’t even cringe (Sam does). She flings droplets of her blood onto the blaze and says three words in a language that Dean has never heard her speak. It’s clipped and guttural, like Enochian, but the rhythm is different, more melodic, and when the flecks of blood hit the flames they rise higher, burn crimson, scarlet. She nods at Dean. It’s his turn. He steps forward. 

Please, he thinks desperately, please, let this work.

He’s practiced the words for this so many times, so many ways in the past month that they come easily to his tongue. Enochian and Aramaic, Greek and Hebrew, Latin blend together in his mouth. As he speaks, the flames rise higher, the woods grow silent around them, the wind picks up. He tries to bring his will to bear, channels his desperation, his desire into the heavy syllables. Emma holds his gaze across the fire. Sam stands steady at his side. The wind whips around them, thunder cracks in the distance; the flams turn a deep forest green, then the brown of dried blood, then the black of a cloudless night sky, sparks rising up before falling over them like stars. 

The moon reaches its height in the sky as Dean says the final words and casts the basin and all its contents onto the fire. The fire explodes in a blinding blast of white light, flinging Dean, Sam, and Emma backwards forcefully. Dean it’s the trunk of a tree; the wind is knocked from his lungs and his vision whites out for a moment. He coughs and sputters, rubs his chest, and when Dean catches his breath his first thought is the worry that Emma has cracked her skull open on a tree. He stumbles over to her still half blind; Sam groans, shaking his shaggy head somewhere to Dean’s left. 

“Sam,” he barks, “you good?”

Sam groans, “Good. You? Is Emma okay?”

Dean crouches beside Emma who rubs at the cut on her temple with the cut on her palm and smears blood across her face in the process. 

“You okay, kiddo?”

She blinks rapidly at him, frowning. He gently cradles her skull, feeling for cuts or bumps.

“Dean?” Sam insists, “She okay?”

Emma grabs Dean’s fingers, nods and then winces. Dean’s not totally convinced; he pulls her close all the same. Emma grunts in surprise when her face hits his chest.

“She’s good, Sam.”

Sam mutters a “thank god.”

He staggers over to them, looms over his brother and his niece and then crouches down. He doesn’t touch Emma, but his eyes rove over her, checking for visible injury, reassuring himself of her well-being. She peers up at him with the eye that’s not smashed against Dean’s chest, assessing and curious. Sam lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and they all three look back at the dying embers of the fire—just a fire now—flickering and smoking as it dies. The golden basin lies to the side, empty, and unharmed, reflecting the last of the guttering light. 

Dean has a cut on his cheek. Sam has a bruise on his forehead and twigs tangled in his hair. Life returns to the woods around them, and the moon starts its crawl to the horizon. Cas’ absence is a void, an open wound hemorrhaging sorrow like blood. Dean doesn’t lash out, Emma doesn’t cry, but when he rises to his feet with her in his arms, Dean feels as though he’s aged ten years, she’s heavy in his arms. 

“Dean—” Sam helps steady him as he stands.

“Sam—” he tries. His mouth is inexplicably dry. The tongue that had deftly delivered a summoning in five languages is clumsy and slow. Emma is solid on his hip. She snuggles closer.

“—I’m sorry,” Sam says: like you say to someone at a funeral, like you say when there’s been a death. Dean swallows. It’s a struggle. There has been a death because…Cas is…he’s not coming back. This was it; their last shot. Dean’s eyes burn. His chest aches. It feels like he’s been shot. He looks down, expecting to see the open wound that he can feel so sharply that its hard to breathe. 

“—let’s go home, Sam,” Dean’s voice is grim, dark, low, “get cleaned up.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, looking at them both, then looking down at his empty hands, as though expecting to find something there, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Sam picks up the basin, and follows behind Dean and Emma as they make their way back to the house.

*

Emma doesn’t ask for Cas with words, but her eyes plead for him. Dean doesn’t know how to comfort her. Sam doesn’t know how to comfort Dean. The next three days pass in a haze of grief and denial. Dean cooks on autopilot, he cleans with a vengeance. He throws the damn books—the damn useless fucking books against the walls—shaking and screaming until he picks up one of the ones that Cas wrote in his own hand, and he crumples into chair with tears streaming down his cheeks, unsure how he got here: where the only thing left of Cas are some scribbles on a piece of paper. 

Emma doesn’t eat, unless pestered, doesn’t sleep without nightmares. She is alternatively petulant and vacant. Dean coaxes her to eat, talks to her even when she won’t talk back, watches over her when she sleeps, tells her stories when she can’t. 

Sam’s grief is present but manageable. He had a year and more to mourn Cas, to reconcile himself to Cas being gone. It was almost too much to hope that, after Dean returned miraculously, that Cas would too. He had had faith, had worked to bring Cas back, but he’s able to resign himself more easily. He’s lived his entire life under the mantle of grief; he understands how to live like this. He empathizes with Emma and Dean’s loss, is better equipped to help and comfort when he can. The shared grief brings the three of them closer. It makes Emma see Sam as something more human; it gives Sam the chance to prove that he’s here for them. Dean is grateful. 

Three days after the ritual, Sam goes on a supply run. He promises to bring back comfort foods, promises to bring back chocolate chips for Emma’s pancakes, and chamomile tea, and some ice cream. Promises to bring the fixings for burgers and bacon and pie. Dean tries to force a smile, but falls miserably short. Sam looks at them with sympathy, and tells them to call if they need anything. 

Dean sits with Emma in the living room. She situates herself on his chest, one ear positioned so that she can listen to his heartbeat, make sure that he’s still breathing. It’s been the only way she can sleep at night lately. He wraps a throw blanket around the two of them and together they work their way through the children’s books that Jody brought them. Emma hasn’t spoken a single word in months, but the silence has become more intense over the last few days, she’s wilting, withdrawn. She’s like him, he thinks, hurt like he was as a child—hurt worse than he was as a child. He understands her silence; he doesn’t push her to speak, he lets her have it; he fills the spaces around it. He remembers what it was like to not have words. 

While Sam is gone, Dean reads the The Cat in the Hat and Madeline and Amelia Bedelia. Once they’ve made their way through all of them, Dean moves on to the paper back of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone that he found in the guest room. Emma shows more interest than she has in anything in three days, intermittently lifting her head from where it rests over his heart to look at the page or watch the expression on his face. They make it to chapter two before Sam calls to let them know he’s on his way back. They settle back down to read. Dean promises Emma that they can make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch.

They’re halfway through chapter three when Sam calls again.

“What’s up, Sam, we were just gettin’ to the good part?”

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice is tense, strung out like a guitar string pulled to tight, ready to snap. It has Dean sitting up automatically, alert, dislodging Emma, who pulls back disgruntled and confused.

“What’s wrong?” Dean growls, getting to his feet. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice shakes, “I think I found Cas.”

Dean drops the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank every single one of you who has read and stayed with this story (especially during my extended absence). It means the world to me. Your comments and support have brightened my days and fueled this chapter. Thank you for loving Dean and Emma as much as I do.


	40. Reunion

To his credit, Dean catches the phone. He’s reflexively got his hand around it before it can hit the floor, but he doesn’t bring it back to his ear. He stands still, frozen, while everything around him slows to a stop, and his heartbeat thuds loud in his ears, and his vision goes fuzzy at the edges.

Cas is alive. Cas is— 

“—Dean? Dean! Are you listening?!” Sam shouts. His voice is tinny, echoing from the phone held at arm’s length. 

Emma curls her hand around the cuff of Dean’s flannel and tugs. 

Dean shakes his head, lifts the phone back up, “Yeah, Sam, yeah, I’m here. What do you know?”

*

He’s in New Hampshire. 

Cas is in New Hampshire. Or else someone pretending to be Cas is in New Hampshire.

Given their luck, it’s a lot more likely that this guy is an impostor than Cas miraculously returned to them. They might not have to worry about demons anymore, but that doesn’t mean the Winchesters aren’t still a target for monsters, hunters, and even some nasty-ass humans. 

“You shouldn’t have followed this damn lead without me, Sam!”

“Dean, you weren’t going to bring Emma and you weren’t going to leave her behind. I would have gone by myself anyway. Leaving right away saved me an extra two hours on the road.”

“You could have been killed, and I wouldn’t have even fucking known! We’ve been over this: you get a lead, you fucking tell the other person before you go off half-cocked!”

“I wasn’t half-cocked, Dean,” Sam sounds unbelievably calm, “He knew things only Cas would know.”

Dean grinds his teeth; his stomach roils with something dangerously like hope.

“Case you missed this lesson, Sam: shifters can download memories; demons can read thoughts, fucking psychics can get all up in your head. Not to mention one of the heavenly douche bags messing with your brain.”

Sam sighs, “I ran all the tests, Dean…he passed…He called your other, other, other cell. It was just dumb luck that I had the phone. He knows things about you, me, Dick Roman, Benny, hell, the hierarchy of beehives that only Cas would know.”

Dean swallows. 

“Dean, he knows about Emma.”

Dean looks at his daughter, who is listening intently, eyes wide.

“I’m bringing him back with me. You can run all the tests, and if you’re not convinced, we’ll deal with it, but Dean…”

Dean can’t hear any more, “Just get here, Sam.”

He hangs up. Emma’s eyes bore into him from the couch, her fingers have left tears in the upholstery. 

“Looks like we’re getting company.”

*

They wait in a state of anxiety. Dean tries to return to Harry Potter, but the magic is gone; he can’t calm the fuck down, and Emma is coiled tightly, eyes glowing. She’s not focusing on the story any more than Dean is and when she starts to bite her lip with her fangs, Dean gives up on reading. 

“I’m feeling like I could use some fresh air,” he says, getting to his feet, “How about you?”

Emma blinks and scrambles to her feet, leading the way out back. 

“Sammy wouldn’t consider this a good coping mechanism,” Dean comments as he lays out an array of weapons on a tree stump, “but Sammy’s not here and this is better than a lot of other coping strategies I could teach you.”

Emma frowns at his words, but reverently runs her fingers over a set of throwing knives. He bought them shortly after Jo and Ellen died, saw them in a shop and couldn’t quite pass them up: swore he saw blonde hair and a devil may care smile reflected in the blades. He’s never used them, but it seems fitting that his daughter should. 

“Wanna play a game?”

Emma grins and chooses her weapon.

*

Dean and Emma spend hours throwing knives at an increasingly difficult set of marks. They’re fairly evenly matched, and, after a while, Dean starts wishing he had crossbows to level up the game. 

Instead, they switch to a game of knife tricks. Dean demonstrates one, and then Emma copies him. She does a more complex trick and then he has to repeat it back. He refuses to let her use more than three blades at once. 

“Not all of us have lightning fast reflexes, kiddo,” he reminds her, “and you’re practicing with dull blades when you start juggling.”

Emma perks up at the idea of juggling knives, and Dean makes a note to keep the throwing knives on lock down until practice knives can be found.

Emma reviews some of the blade forms that Cas taught her in Purgatory. She moves fluidly through the motions, a graceful, deadly dancer. He asks her to teach him some, and she does so gladly: silently demonstrating a pose and then evaluating his form. 

They practice punches kicks and blocks against trees. They keep going until Dean is sweating and flushed, and Emma is brown eyed, breathing normally, and loose limbed. 

He gives her a bath, and when she’s finished dressing, he brushes and braids her hair. He showers quickly and throws on clothes and boots. 

Dean makes them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of the last of their bread and slices an apple into pieces for them to share. They chew in silence, expectation and anxiety growing with each bite. Dean keeps glancing at the clock, Emma keeps glancing at the door.

“When they get here,” Dean says, “I want you to go upstairs and stay there until I say.”

Emma draws up, ramrod straight in her chair, clearly offended.

“I want this to be Cas, Em, I really, really do,” Dean leans forward earnestly, “but if he’s not, if he’s some douchebag pretending to be Cas, if things go sideways, I don’t want him to know that you’re here. Hell, I don’t want him to know you exist.”

Emma glares.

“I know you’re not helpless,” he reminds her, “I was there when you kicked my ass out there.”

Emma rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.

“But you’re a kid and you shouldn’t be in a position where you have to kick someone’s ass. There are people, things, that would hurt you to try to hurt me, and if this dude is one of them? Your best advantage is getting out of here quick, and that’s what you’ll do, capiche?”

He offers her a hand. She eyes it, then looks at him solemnly.

“If it is Cas, I will call you down right away. I promise.”

Emma worries her bottom lip with human teeth, then she lays her hand on top of Dean’s. He closes her fingers around hers and squeezes. 

*

When he hears tires, he takes Emma upstairs. Makes sure she has a phone with Jody’s number ready on speed dial and a stack of activities and books to keep her occupied even though he knows that she’s going to most likely ignore them in favor of listening in. He hesitates before placing a quick kiss to the top of her head.

“If anything goes wrong,” he reminds her, “you know what to do.”

She nods twice, little jaw tight, arms wrapped around Bunny, left hand clutching a knife. He takes one moment to memorize her, soak her in like that, just in case, and then he nods back, and shuts the door behind him when he leaves the room. 

He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans as he makes his way down the stairs, quiet on his feet. He takes the gun from his waistband, alert like he’s on a hunt, on sentry duty, but his heart is beating too fast, hummingbird quick beneath his breast bone, in a way that it hasn’t in years.

He stands in the foyer gun ready, spine straight, prepared for anything, everything, except for the man who walks through the door. 

*

His hair has grown out. It’s shaggy, curling around his ears and across his forehead where’s it’s been partially pushed away. His Purgatory beard is gone, but’s he’s not clean shaven, his face covered in at least two days of scruff. There’s a cut on his cheek and the trench coat is nowhere to be seen, but he stares at Dean with wide, blue eyes, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, there’s so much hope and—

“Dean?” he croaks, unsure, taking a tentative step forward on shaky legs.

Dean moves before he can even think. He wraps his arms around Cas, pulls him in, as tight as he did by that riverbank in Purgatory, but this time, Cas doesn’t stand statue still, he leans into Dean, collapses into him, like his knees have given way with relief. 

“I gotcha, Cas.” 

He’s a warm solid weight in Dean’s arms, muscle and bone wrapped in a soft hoodie and jeans. He holds onto Dean like he’s walked a thousand miles to find his way back home. He’s trembling like a leaf, clinging to Dean with both of his arms, his fingers digging into Dean’s back through the fabric of his shirts. Dean clutches him tighter. Impossibly tighter. 

Cas’ face is buried in Dean’s shoulder, and he’s repeating Dean’s name like a mantra into the skin of his neck. 

“I gotcha, Cas,” his voice is thick, his eyes burning. Cas is here, safe, alive: Dean can feel his breath against his neck, feel his sobs reverberate through his chest, he can smell the cheap shampoo in Cas’ hair and the musty scent of his sweatshirt and a faint tang of sweat on his skin. He can’t be dreaming this. He can’t be dreaming this. He can’t. 

Dean doesn’t know how long they stay like that, long enough for them to end up sitting on the floor of the foyer, holding each other. Long enough for Cas’ breathing to even out. Long enough for Dean’s hands to wander, freer than they ever have before, across Cas’ back, the slope of his shoulders, his arms, his hands. Long enough for Cas to pull back and wipe his eyes on his sleeve. Long enough for Dean to trace the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw. Long enough for Cas’ breath to catch. Long enough for him to smile.

Dean searches Cas’ eyes, takes in his features: his face, every detail, the lines around his eyes, the color of his mouth, the slope of his nose. 

“I thought we’d lost you, man.”

Cas grips Dean’s arm, “You almost did.”

Sam clears his throat loudly from the doorway. He raises a flask of holy water and shakes it slightly. 

“I’m guessing you don’t need to run any more tests?” there’s a smile in his voice.

Cas pulls back to get to his feet, and Dean redoubles his grip on his arm.

He frowns at Dean, “You really should; to be safe.”

“I don’t—” want this to disappear, want to lose you again, want to wake up if I’m dreaming.

Cas’ frown gentles, “For your peace of mind. You need to be sure.”

Dean nods, gets to his feet, and pulls Cas up with him. 

He takes a silver knife from his boot, and Cas offers his arm. There’s already a bandage from where Sam made the cut earlier. Dean hesitates before he presses the knife to Cas’ skin. Cas’ arm doesn’t twitch, and Sam provides a new piece of gauze and tape. A shot of holy water, a splash of borax, a touch of iron, and an exorcism later, Cas stands in front of him, whole and solid and miraculously there. Sam has a hand on his shoulder, beaming. Dean can’t take his eyes off of Cas. He’s afraid to blink, afraid to move, afraid to fucking breathe. 

“Cas, how did you—?”

But there’s a noise behind him, and Cas eyes leave Dean’s face for the first time since he entered the room, focusing on the stairs, where tiny feet are (deliberately, it has to be, Emma is usually silent), thundering down the stairs. 

“Emma,” Dean shouts, “I told you to stay upstairs!”

She doesn’t pay a whit of attention to him. She has eyes only for Cas. She runs at full speed towards him, eyes bright and determined. Cas moves to stand before her, he lowers himself to her level, expecting, like Dean does, that she’ll leap into his arms, but she stops short a foot away from him. Skidding to a halt, she scowls. Her eyes turn gold and her fangs descend and she turns to Dean, panicked. 

“Emma,” he says, crouching down next to her, frowning in confusion, “it’s okay. It’s Cas” he nods at Cas, who looks unsurprised and resigned. It makes Dean’s heart skip a beat, makes his stomach twist unpleasantly, that look.

Emma moves closer to Dean, she shoots a concerned look to Sam, and tugs on Dean’s sleeve. She shakes her head emphatically. 

“No,” she says, she frowns at Cas looks like she’s going to either run back up the stairs or fly at Cas’ face with her tiny talons. 

Dean, places a hand on her shoulder, she’s shaking, “Em—”

“Emma,” Cas says, his voice low and gentle, and then he says several more syllables in a guttural language that Dean recognizes as Enochian. 

Emma eyes him suspiciously. Cas repeats himself.

She looks at Dean and then at Cas. She responds in the same language. 

Cas sighs and shakes his head, he offers her a tremulous smile and gestures around himself. He speaks again. 

Dean shoots a look at Sam, who shrugs, just as, or nearly as, clueless as to what they’re saying.

Emma bites her lip and tugs on Dean’s sleeve.

Dean can’t believe how these tables have turned—to have Emma seeking reassurance from him while facing Cas—and he’s not sure he likes it. 

“It’s okay, Emma. I promise.”

She approaches Cas one tiny, hesitant step at a time and he waits, patiently, hand outstretched towards her. She scrutinizes him, sniffs cautiously, and walks in a circle around him. When she faces him again, she’s biting her lip and there are tears in her eyes. 

“Cas?” her voice breaks on the word, and Cas smiles so brightly at her, so brilliantly that it could shame the stars. 

“It’s me, little one.”

Emma launches herself into him with enough force to knock him over. Cas catches her, lands on his butt with an armful of four-year-old, and Dean’s heart just about bursts on the spot while Sam chuckles wetly behind him. 

*

Cas murmurs to her in Enochian for several minutes, one hand rubbing circles into her back, the other holding her close to him, while Emma cries into his chest. His head is bent towards her, as he rocks slowly from side to side. She eventually quiets, mumbling indistinguishable words wetly. Cas cradles her head in his hand and pulls her closer. 

Dean can’t look away from them. His heart filled with longing. He wants to drop to the floor and pull them both into the circle of his arms, but he knows that this moment doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to them. It belongs to Cas and Emma. Dean feels lucky, honored, grateful just to witness it. How many times, as a child, as a young man, hell, last year, had he imagined his mother coming back to him, miraculously returned from the dead? How many times had he dreamed of what it would feel like to have her arms around him, to be able to tell her how much he had missed her, how much he loved her? 

He never got to have that moment with her, never had that reunion, and part of him will always feel the ache of that loss, but to see his child, his daughter, have that moment, to know that that void in her life is being filled, to watch that wound heal? It is a gift. It’s a miracle. 

Sam places a firm, grounding hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s jaw clenches and he nods. Sam knows. Sam gets it. He doesn’t begrudge Emma this moment either. Dean’s sure that if he could tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him, he would find that Sam was crying. 

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Sam whispers, voice rough, “Either of them.”

Dean nods, “They’re family.”

“Yeah,” Sam sniffs, “yeah, they are.”

Eventually, Cas gets to his feet, and Emma stays glued to him. She doesn’t let go, she clings. Cas doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps his arms tight around her and she hides her face in his neck, emerging to glare at the suggestion that she release him so that he can shower and change. 

She begrudgingly waits with Dean outside the bathroom, both of them making sure that Cas doesn’t disappear like a mirage, evaporating with the shower steam. Sam goes to gather some spare clothes from Dean’s room so that they can keep their vigil. 

Emma’s eyes are bloodshot from crying, and she perches on Dean’s lap while they watch the door together. 

She doesn’t break her gaze when she breaks her silence, “Hurt.”

“What?” Dean startles, “You’re hurt?” 

He frantically looks her over, but she shakes her head and squirms away from his attempts to pat her down. 

“Cas,” she says earnestly, “He’s hurt.”

Dean frowns, “What d’you mean he’s hurt?”

Before she can explain, Sam comes down the hall with a stack of clothes; Cas dresses and emerges with wet hair dripping dully onto his borrowed Henley. The grey track pants aren’t that different from the scrubs he’s worn in Purgatory, but it’s absurdly odd, Dean thinks, to see Cas’ feet covered in nothing more than a pair of socks. Odd and endearing. Oddly endearing. Dean’s face heats bizarrely at his own contemplation.

Sam peppers Cas with questions: is he hungry? Does he feel better? Does he need water? Coffee? Tea? Emma is safely and securely clinging to Cas’ torso. Dean follows along a step behind them, too stunned by this turn of events, too shocked, to ask anything. He’s almost afraid that a single sound will cause the scene to evaporate. 

It’s only when they reach the kitchen, that Sam seems to remember that the entire reason he left the house today was because they were out of food. 

“Crap,” he mutters, all boyish grin and floppy hair. He’s taking this as a win—the entire day. He’s fairly bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s a show of unbridled emotion that makes the situation even more surreal for Dean. It’s such a far cry from his own return from Purgatory. 

He basically skips out the door to get them provisions, get them a pizza to celebrate. Suddenly, it’s Dean and Cas and Emma alone in the house.

Dean’s shoves his hands into his pockets, unsure of himself. He can’t take his eyes off of Cas. Cas alternates between touching Emma soothingly and gazing at Dean as if he can’t believe his own eyes. 

“We, ah,” he has to clear his throat, “We started reading Harry Potter earlier if you maybe wanna do that?”

Cas smiles, “I would like that.”

*

When Sam comes back, they eat. Cas has to maneuver around Emma to get pizza into his mouth, and by some unspoken agreement, nobody mentions that he’s eating at all. After dinner, Cas and Emma go upstairs, and Sam and Dean unpack the groceries. 

Dean doesn’t ask Sam about the circumstances under which he found Cas. He doesn’t ask what they talked about on the drive here. He doesn’t ask anything, doesn’t say a word, and Sam doesn’t offer any information. Instead, he talks about the grocery shopping, about organic Kale, about making celebratory waffles in the morning. 

“I’ll clean the dishes,” he says, with soft eyes when he realizes that Dean has been staring blankly at refrigerator for at least five minutes, “why don’t you go and talk to him.”

Dean nods and lets his feet carry him upstairs.

They’re curled up in Dean’s bed. Cas on his side, curved around Emma, who is tucked into a tight ball, one fist gripping Cas’ shirt and the other holding Bunny, fast asleep. Cas watches over her, occasionally brushing a stray hair off of her face, enraptured. 

Dean stands in the doorway, watching them, silent, hesitant. He doesn’t want to disrupt, hovers on the threshold. He considers turning and leaving them in peace, but he’s afraid to move forward or back. Afraid that breathing, twitching will make this all disappear. How many nights in Purgatory did he wish for this? Just this? How many days had he thought—? This can’t be real. It’s too good. It’s too good to be true. It’s too much. People like, Dean, don’t get moments like this. They don’t—.

“She’s grown,” Cas says almost in awe. He shares a soft smile with Dean, a grateful, luminous smile, and it’s like a line tugging on his heart, drawing him forward, closer. 

He walks over towards them, gently lowers himself, so that he’s curled around his daughter, curled towards Cas. 

Cas’ eyes are gentle, wondrous as he looks at Emma, and then again up at Dean.

“She’s got those Winchester genes,” Dean says voice pitched low, “I just hope she doesn’t take too much after Sam.”

Cas’ mouth twitches up at the corners, a silent laugh, “There’s much time before she would catch up.”

Dean smiles back, “We have that time.”

Cas’ eyes well with tears, a dark lock of hair falls forward as he dips his head. Emboldened, Dean reaches across, brushes the hair out of his eyes, brushes the tear from his cheek. Cas’ skin is warm and he closes his eyes at Dean’s touch. Lays a hand on top of Dean’s.

“We thought—” Dean’s voice breaks, “Cas, I thought that—”

Cas squeezes his fingers, “I know, Dean.”

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Dean shakes his head, “you just threw us out of there. You could’ve died. I thought you did die. Why the fuck--?”

“You know why, Dean.”

“You stupid, brave, fucking—”

“I would do it again,” Cas rejoins, “to save you, to save her. Dean, I would do it again without a second’s hesitation.”

“You don’t understand—you fucking have no idea how it was without you.”

Cas’ mouth twists, sour, strained, “I have some idea…I heard you, praying.”

Dean blinks.

“Not always,” Cas laces their fingers together, seems fascinated by the warmth and weight of Dean’s hand in his own, “sometimes it was just static, sometimes just feelings, but I heard you…I knew you made it out alive, both of you, that made everything after worth it to me.”

His eyes are wide and calm, resolved. Dean wants to pull him closer, but he doesn’t want to disrupt Emma, who, reunited with Cas, is more deeply asleep than he’s ever seen her. 

“What—” he’s afraid to ask, “what did happen after?”

Cas frowns, gaze turning distant. 

“I was hunted by Leviathan…I tried to lead them away from the portal, away from you in case…just in case…”

Dean rubs a circle against Cas’ hand with his thumb. 

“Time passed…I thought of what you said, about coming back being the way to atone…about the two of you, about my…my family.”

A tear slides down his nose. Cas squeezes his eyes tightly closed. Dean moves quickly but silently coming behind Cas, he pulls him tight to his chest, careful not to dislodge Emma’s hold on his front.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Cas is warm in his arms, muscle and bone; he presses a kiss to Cas’ shoulder, and Cas lets out a sob, “I’ve got you. You’re here now. You’re home.”

“I ripped out my grace, Dean.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat. 

“I would understand,” Cas’ voice cracks, “If you didn’t want me here anymore. I am not useful. I know that without my powers…” 

“I don’t give a single fuck about your powers, Cas,” Dean snaps, “I care about you. How could you ever—? Cas you will always have a home with me. You are my family. Jesus Christ. Always.”

Cas shudders, and Dean pull him closer, tighter. 

Emma stirs, and Cas runs a soothing hand against her back. Dean watches the movement. The tenderness, kindness, love.

“She said you were hurt,” he whispers once it’s clear that Emma has settled, “that’s what she meant.”

Cas nods, “She has always been perceptive, more perceptive than humans. She has always been able to sense my grace, my wings…she noticed their absence as well…It was troubling for her, to see me, but not feel my presence.”

“Did it hurt?”

Cas laughs, a short, guttural thing. Dean remembers Anna: butter knives and kidneys and no anesthesia. 

“Yes, it hurt.”

“You took a big risk, Cas,” Dean notes, no judgement, god knows what he would do to get back to Cas and Emma and Sam, but still… “You could have died.”

“I didn’t have much choice. I was outnumbered by Leviathan, wounded. It was die or make an attempt.”

“You took the nuclear option.”

He can hear the smirk, “In a manner of speaking.”

Dean presses his face into Cas shoulder, “You stupid son of a bitch.”

Cas rubs a hand against Dean’s arm, “I believed that if Emma was able to cling to her human nature and make her way out, then perhaps, without my Grace, I would be “human enough” to pass through the portal. There was no human woman to carry me as a child, no place for my essence to go in Purgatory. I took a risk, but it was the best option at the time”

Dean squeezes Cas tight. He knows all about those.

“There’s an oasis now, in Purgatory, a place of pure creation, I woke up in the center of it…It was…incredible, to see that much life in that place.”

Dean tries to imagine it; green and verdant, blossoming in the middle of all that darkness and decay. Just like Cas. 

“I bet it was.”

“I made it through the portal, and I tried to find my way back to you. Without my wings I couldn’t fly, without my grace I couldn’t hear you. I had no idea where you were. I tried to contact you but the numbers were disconnected. I had no money and no ID.”

“Cas, I—”

“It’s not your fault, Dean.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you.”

“You’re here with me now.”

“They last time I had heard you praying, you said you were in Virginia, so I made my way down the East Coast, shop lifting and staying in homeless shelters…it was unpleasant, but given that Purgatory was my most recent point of comparison, it wasn’t horrific. The fear was new to me though…the hopelessness…I worried that I would never find you again…that something had happened to you, that…I imagined many things…”

Dean sooths him, gentle, quiet.

“Then, two days ago, I felt something, sharp, in my chest; I called the right number and Sam answered.”

“The summons?”

“We think so, yes. I couldn’t appear to you without my grace, but whatever fragments of grace I had left, responded to the summons in a human way.”

“I’m so fucking glad they did.”

“Me too.”

They lie there in silence: Dean with his arms pulling Cas tight, his face pressed against Cas’ back. Cas caresses Dean’s arm. Emma sleeps, quietly, peacefully, for maybe the first time in her life. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You told me that if I still wanted to tell you, when we got “topside” that I could, I—”

Dean buries his face more firmly in Cas’ shoulder, “Cas.”

“Dean, I—”

“I love you.”

He can feel Cas breath catch, can feel his heart race.

“I’ve loved you for years. I fucking love you so fucking much. I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t say anything. I just, Cas, I fucking—”

“Shhh, Dean,” Cas turn, laying a hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean’s eyes are still tight shut, like he can’t fucking face what he’s done, can’t face Cas’ response, can’t face his own fucking feelings, because he’s a stupid motherfucker, and he doesn’t deserve Cas, doesn’t deserve—

“Dean, look at me.”

Dean blinks open to realize that his vision is blurry and his eyes sting. Just fucking great: he’s crying. 

Cas’ eyes come into focus. He’s turned so that he’s lying on his back, keeping Emma close and sleeping on his side, but he’s watching Dean, touching him, gazing at him with such brightness in his eyes, he’s almost glowing, despite the tears on his lashes.

“Dean, I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you. I will love you with all that I am until the day that I die and beyond that. Dean, I—”

Then Dean surges forward; he can’t hear anymore, and he presses his lips to Cas’. Cas takes a sharp breath and then he kisses back. Dean’s hands are on his face, and he’s kissing him as gently and reverently as Dean had ever dreamed he might. 

“I love you,” Cas whispers, “I love you.”

“Don’t leave again, Cas, please, don’t—” Dean’s voice cracks, breaks, and Cas pulls him close so that Dean’s head rests over Cas’ heart. 

“I’m here, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Stay, Cas.”

“Always.”

Dean falls asleep with Cas’ heart beat steady and sure in his ear and his daughter peaceful face in his eyes, wrapped tight together. A family.


End file.
